


The Larton Chronicles 2 - Second Chance

by rhiannon15900



Series: The Larton Chronicles [2]
Category: The Professionals
Genre: A/U, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 08:24:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9539642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhiannon15900/pseuds/rhiannon15900
Summary: The further adventures of Raymond Doyle and his horse mad companion...





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is by Rhiannon, who isn't on line; the story is posted with her enthusiastic consent.
> 
> I'll pass on any comments/kudos to her.
> 
> Please let me know if you spot any typos so I can correct them.
> 
> HGdoghouse

THE LARTON CHRONICLES

TWO

SECOND ROUND  
by Rhiannon

 

BODIE paid off his taxi and gave the grumbling driver instructions on the quickest way back to the nearest main road. Then, hefting his bag, he paused to survey his home. Parsons Farm drowsed in the early morning light; a heat mist drifting over gave it a look of rural enchantment worthy of inclusion in Country Living. Bodie always saw it that way; of course he ignored the squeaking gate, the sagging fence and the fact that though the moss-grown roof tiles were undoubtedly picturesque, they also hid the fact that the roof leaked badly in several places. 

It was now 5 a.m.; the birds were singing their socks off, while from down the lane Mr Perkins' cockerel, Frodo, added his voice to the dawn chorus. Bodie hoped Ray was sound asleep; he tended to be restive and unappreciative if woken early, and by any standards 5 a.m. was early. 

Bodie made his way up the path to the side passage door, noting that Ray had been busy again: the grass was freshly trimmed and the borders tidy. He sniffed appreciatively at the stocks and opened the side door. (On most farmhouses the front door is never used except on great social occasions like weddings and funerals - unless, of course, a member of the family is the sort of bright spark who bets that it is possible to ride Daisy in the front and out the back. This feat, though certainly possible, invariably leads to conflict with the domestics.) Bodie therefore unlocked the passage door, and was immediately confronted by a very large jug filled with dried flowers, which he just managed to avoid stumbling over. He gave it a curious look; while Ray had several strange habits, up to now a taste for interior decoration had not been one of them. He dropped his bag beside the bench flanking a row of wellington boots, drying anoraks and Ray's bicycle, and entered the kitchen. 

He was immediately overwhelmed by Sam who came out of his basket like a coiled spring, barking effusively; Frobisher, warming his now elderly bones on the Aga, merely opened one eye then closed it again. There was a chirrup behind him as Kasper shot through the cat flap. Bodie hurriedly checked to see he had not also brought a mouse with him, or something else equally undesirable. Amos, he guessed, would be snoozing away in his basket in Ray's study; Amos disliked sharing the kitchen with his companions, who tended to enjoy late night parties. 

Bodie greeted the animals, trying desperately to quieten Sam at the same time. He put the kettle on and glanced at the clock. Hardly worth going to bed. A shower, change of clothes and - he peered in the refrigerator - yes, a bacon sandwich, then he could get right out to the stables. 

 

"There you are now, Mr Doyle!" Mrs Paget placed a well-filled plate in front of her employer: hash browns, tomato, black pudding, mushrooms and bacon, all cooked to perfection. Doyle waved an appreciative fork. 

"I know you like a good breakfast," she went on. "I've put Mr Bodie's in the oven. Saw he was back. He'll enjoy a good meal after being abroad." 

"He's been in Dublin, not Afghanistan!" said Doyle. "Dunno, though, you could be right. They nearly killed me once with their awful white pudding. Had heartburn for a week." 

"I'll start on your study now," said Mrs Paget, "then strip your bed and get the washing under way." She departed to Doyle's study to recover all the missing cups, plates and mugs which had taken root there since her last attack. 

Doyle's normally edgy morning disposition had not been improved by being woken at 5 a.m. by a combination of Bodie, Bodie's dog, the dawn chorus and that bloody Frodo. He'd tried to doze off again, but even with a pillow over his head sleep had been impossible. Still... 

He looked at his breakfast, smiled and, passing Amos a succulent piece of bacon, started eating. He was well along when the kitchen door opened. Bodie entered, bringing with him a strong smell of horse and a preoccupied expression. Doyle surveyed him critically. He looks disgusting as usual, he thought. 

Bodie made his way to the bookshelf by the cooker; originally intended only for those books devoted to the culinary arts, it had gained interlopers. So handy to be able to read while you were doing something boring like stirring a white sauce. 

"Morning, Bodie," said Doyle brightly. 

Bodie went on searching, then with a grunt of triumph pulled out a battered and much- thumbed volume and began to search through its pages. 

"Morning, Bodie!" said Doyle, much more loudly. 

Bodie looked at him vaguely, stopped reading and, crossing to the wall-telephone, began to dial a number. He nodded to Doyle. 

"Agnes? Yes, I am back! Get Jack, will you? It's about horses." Bodie put his hand over the mouthpiece. "Cow," he muttered. There was a short silence. "Jack? Oh, good. I've just had a look at Piper's droppings. I think I'd better get a worm egg count done. Yes, I've checked up in Codrington's, all the symptoms. And another thing... when I looked at his - " 

At this point Doyle snatched up his plate and, with a glare of outrage at Bodie, departed to his study. As he left, Bodie was going into even more nauseating details of his horse's internal problems. 

Fortunately Mrs Paget was just putting the finishing touches to his now pristine study, so Doyle was able to enjoy his breakfast in peace. He returned to the kitchen to collect another plateful of toast and found Bodie chuckling over someone's accident on the hunting field. Broken neck at least, Doyle surmised from the degree of amusement generated. Then he remembered Mrs Paget's monthly salary was due. Finding insufficient funds in his wallet, he returned to the kitchen and demanded Bodie's immediate attention. 

"Money!" said Doyle. "We need to pay Mrs P. Where's your wallet?" 

Bodie looked about. "Jacket's over there. Good luck," he said. 

Doyle fished out the wallet and extracted all the money he could find. Then, seeing they were still short, he attacked Bodie's breeches pockets. This finally got him their owner's undivided, squirming attention, so he got in a quick grope as well. 

"I do wish you'd remember to change your money before you come home," grumbled Doyle, looking with displeasure at the pretty colleen on the orange and green note. 

Now fully solvent, he went off to settle with Mrs Paget. When he returned, Bodie was finally off the telephone and starting on his breakfast. He looked at Doyle. 

"Sod!" he said, with feeling. "And by the way, who's responsible for that jug of flowers in the passage? I nearly tripped over the damn thing this morning." 

"Mrs P.," said Doyle. "A woman's touch... I rather like it myself. We need something better to look at than a row of wellingtons and your bootjack! More coffee?" 

Bodie nodded and Doyle poured them both a cup and settled with a sigh of contentment. 

"I had a terrible journey," said Bodie. "Plane bounced all the way, people falling about, spilling whisky all over the show..." 

"So what's new?" said Doyle. "Aer Lingus using sub-standard rubber bands again, are they?" 

Bodie ignored the slur on his nation's airline. "Then," he went on, "I had to travel on what I swear was a milk train, it stopped everywhere. And when I get to Gretton the taxi driver swore Larton didn't exist! 'Been here man and boy,' he said, 'but I've never heard of no Larton.'" 

"Thank you, Walter Gabriel," said Doyle. "So why, after all that privation, didn't you just sleep in - you look terrible - instead of rushing out to the stables to muck out with Jos? He gets paid to do it, after all." 

"Waste of money," said Bodie. "You should do it. Give you a real appetite for breakfast that would, shake out all the cobwebs." 

"You're joking!" said Doyle. "I'm not wasting my valuable time playing nursemaid to two smelly horses. Here, more toast." He passed the plate over. "And how long are you home this time?" 

Bodie looked up. "Just five days, then I'd better get over to Hickstead to see how the horses have travelled before we take 'em back to Dublin for a month's rest and light training before the International. We did well at Ballsbridge. You should have come over - you would have enjoyed it." 

"I did wonder about that," said Doyle, "especially when I read the headlines in The Sun." 

There was a short silence. 

"I know I shouldn't ask," said Bodie, "but what are you going on about now?" 

Doyle marched to the dresser and opened a well-filled drawer: the contents rose dramatically as he did so. Extracting several sheets of newsprint, he closed the drawer with some difficulty. 

"I'm on about you," said Doyle with some emphasis, "and fun-loving Amy, Countess of Merton. You made all the tabloids. Herself with the dashing Chef d'Equipe of the Irish Army Jumping Team, Commandant William Bodie, a popular escort at Dublin Horse Show events. Is it true her husband is going to shoot you?" he inquired, with only mild interest. He passed the pages to Bodie, who glanced at them. 

"I do wish they'd stop taking photos of me with my mouth open," he remarked. "You're ruining my breakfast, you know." 

"Good," said Doyle. "You are going to have time to concoct a reasonable story as I'm off to see Halliwell this morning. I'm not happy about the book at all. 

"There are some messages on the board for you: Jess wants to talk to you about Ashley's progress at school; Fred rang - he would like you to whip-in for the next Meet - Maud's crocked up and the doctors grounded her for a month. Poor old girl looked wretched when she called. I gave her a gin and she cheered up a lot. Now I've read The Sun, I know why you've come back from Dublin looking like the survivor of some very gaudy nights," Doyle added tartly. 

Bodie studied the message board. "What's all this about 'River Committee, Tuesday night'?" he asked. 

"That's for me," said Doyle. "I'm on the committee to clear up that sodding smelly river. Should have been done years ago. Can't understand why the whole village hasn't been wiped out before now by cholera." 

"What sodding smelly river?" asked Bodie in surprise. 

"The Piddle, of course," said Doyle. "We walk by it every time we go to the village. You know, it goes under the bridge where you always stop and admire Tipton's pigs. That sodding smelly river. I think your sense of smell's atrophied - it's being with all those bloody horses." 

"I shouldn't wonder," said Bodie, pouring more coffee. "Are you going anywhere near J.A. Allen's while you're in London? The horse bookshop off Buckingham Palace Road," he added hopefully. 

"I know where it is," said Doyle. "And as I'm off to see Halliwell in his office at Newington Green I'm unlikely to be passing that way." 

"Oh," said Bodie, sounding discouraged. 

Doyle made the mistake of looking at him; two sad blue eyes looked back. 

"All right," he said wearily. "Let's have the list of books you can't live without - and some money, please." 

"Ah, you just cleared out my pockets, remember?" said Bodie. "Can you hang on till I cash a cheque? No, better still, ask them to put 'em on my account. And give Jennie my best." 

"Your best what?" asked Doyle. "You never mentioned having an account there before." 

"Didn't I?" said Bodie, finishing his coffee. "I'd better get back to the stables." He strolled out. 

"Mrs Paget wants the clothes-line shifted!" Doyle yelled after him. This was greeted with a casual wave. Doyle hoped that meant the matter would be taken in hand, but was not unduly optimistic. 

 

On arriving in London he sought out J.A. Allen's delightful establishment. A very capable young lady took the book-list and despatched a minion to search out the required volumes, then inquired if Mr Doyle would like a cup of tea. 

Mr Doyle, reflecting how different this was from Hatchards, where any perusal of a book for more than ten seconds brings the comment that this is not a library, said he would love a cup. As he sipped his tea he inquired if she was Jennie by any chance. 

The young lady blushed and said she was and had Mr Doyle seen the front cover of the latest issue of Horse and Hound? 

Mr Doyle said, No, he hadn't, without also remarking that it was not, nor was it ever likely to be, on his reading-list. She brought him over a copy. 

"Isn't he handsome?" she breathed. 

Mr Doyle agreed that at least Bodie had his mouth shut for once, and told himself that he would like to knock that smug look right off his face. 

He purchased a copy for himself, to have something to complain about when he got home. After a look at the pile of books which had mounted up on the counter, he arranged for them to be sent carriage. He also resolved, after scanning the condition of Bodie's charge account, to have a serious talk with him - again - on the subject of 'living within your income'. 

Feeling strangely cheered by all this he departed for Newington Green, his good mood evaporating as all his doubts about his latest book surfaced yet again. 

"Never thought I'd finish the damn thing," he complained to Mr Halliwell. "Then having to rewrite most of it after I found that new information - I'm still not happy about that either. I'm sure there's something I've missed. I've been having premonitions about it." 

Mr Halliwell nodded and said Mr Doyle's copy would be available shortly and that the publishers were convinced the book would do well. 

"I'm not," said Doyle. "It's too cerebral for a start - leaves you feeling so bloody depressed you want to stick your head in the oven in despair at the whole world. Thought of doing it myself but Bodie rang from Dublin, full of some rubbish - took my mind off the idea." 

"Nonsense," said Mr Halliwell briskly. "You know you always feel like this after you have finished a book, don't you?" 

"Yeah, I suppose so." Doyle shrugged. "Bodie says it's post-natal depression and always yanks me out on some damn trip with him. He has the oddest ideas for holidays. I sometimes think the only difference between Bodie and a horse is you don't often see them curled up with a book. I think he's got half J.A. Allen's stock on order at the moment. I said to him last time he was home, why don't we become tax exiles? Well, by the time those bloodsuckers in the Inland Revenue have their lot I'd be better off sweeping the streets! Asked him if he fancied the Isle of Man - that's far enough abroad for Bodie. He said, No, they don't hunt there. I worry about him sometimes." 

"And how is Mr Bodie?" inquired Mr Halliwell, hoping to lighten Doyle's mood and thinking Mr Bodie must need infinite patience at times with his moody partner. 

"As usual," said Doyle. "Back from Ireland, looking like the Wreck of the Hesperus. I expect you saw he was featured in the Daily Tits? Nothing in it, of course. Just wish he had more sense. Last thing I need is reporters from that bucket of swill crawling about in the shrubbery. Think I'll get a pair of Dobermanns. He's made the front cover of Horse and Hound, too. There'll be no living with him now." 

"Has he really?" said Mr Halliwell. "I must get a copy for my wife. She is a great admirer of his since you introduced them at the Royal Windsor Show." 

"Are you coming down for the cricket match?" inquired Doyle. "I saw we were down to play Cleobury Mortimer in the village derby. Call in for a meal if you do - always welcome. I'll push Bodie on to bat - if he's not off on a horse somewhere." 

"I'd like to," said Mr Halliwell, "but unfortunately I have to go over to our New York office at that time. Miserable place. I'd much rather stay and see Cleobury Mortimer wallop Larton." 

"Or vice versa," said Doyle. "Well, I'd better be off now - try and beat the commuter rush. Hope Bodie hasn't invited the Beaufort to tea. Can't stand 'em myself, but anyone on a horse is a chum to Bodie. Just wish he had friends of a more intellectual bent instead of fellas whose horizons are bound by whether or not to jump Elsie in a martingale or a hackamore!" 

Mr Halliwell made sympathetic noises and reminded Doyle the book would be published shortly, which to Doyle was not music to the ears. 

He managed to make the train he wanted for once and settled in the first class with a large whisky and the evening papers. He glanced through the headlines to make sure the further doings of fun-loving Amy, Countess of Merton were not featured and, relieved, began to do the crossword. After a while he gave up on that and brooded on the passing scenery and his now constant worry about Bodie. 

Need to talk to him, he thought. He's got something on his mind and I don't think it's the bloody team. Things aren't working out for us, either. Just not getting enough time together any more. I know when we started out I said, Good, be fine not having you under my feet when I'm working, clattering about booted and spurred all the time, but we've hardly had any time together for eight months now. I know Bodie's not happy about that, and I'm not - have to admit that. I could move to Dublin with him, but I can't stand the place. He knows that and doesn't expect me to. I can't ask him to pack in his job with those damn horses - he wouldn't be happy. Oh well, something will work out. It has to. I'll tackle him first - find out what else is the matter. 

At that moment Gretton station appeared and with a sigh of relief Doyle left the train and collected his car from the station car park. He was driving along in a much happier frame of mind when he spotted a familiar figure trudging along the road ahead. It was Lord Bicester. After a short struggle with his conscience, Doyle drew up beside him. 

"Evening, Jack," he remarked, trying to inject some enthusiasm into his voice. "Where are you off to? Care for a lift?" 

"Thanks, Ray," said Lord Bicester, climbing into the car with alacrity. As usual, he appeared to have slept in his clothes. "I'm off to see Maud Blackett. She's crocked up, y'know. Rodney went off with me car, wretched lad. Met me heir, have you?" 

"Yes," said Doyle shortly. 

"Um," said Lord Bicester. "He takes people that way, does Rodney. The lady wife has never liked him either. I wondered if the army could do anything with the lad. I asked Will about it once. He rolled about laughing. I see Will's back. Mentioned Galway, has he?" 

"As in Bay?" queried Doyle. "No, he hasn't. Why?" 

There was a silence. "Not my place," said Lord Bicester at last. "But..." 

"Oh, get on with it," said Doyle. "And I've seen the bloody Sun." 

"Nothing in that," said Lord Bicester dismissively. "Will's not a complete idiot. Know Rory Kepple, do you? Hunts with the Whaddon - very sound chap." 

"No," said Doyle. 

"Ah. Well, Rory's been down in Galway, visiting. His mother comes from round there. Very old family, all mad as hatters. He went out with the Blazers a few times. They're a rough crowd, sink five double whiskys before a meet, that sort of thing. He heard Will was coming down from Dublin most weekends - throwing a leg over anything that could jump well. Will took out some real bastards. Goes hell for leather too. Shook some of them, the chances he was taking. Drinking, too. He had a fall into some wire, could have been bad. Thought you'd better know." 

"Thanks for telling me," said Doyle. "I knew something was wrong. We'll sort it out. Here is Maud's place now. Give her this from me." He passed a package over and waved as the door was opened by a hobbling but still cheerful Maud. 

When he arrived back at Parsons Farm he found Bodie had eaten his supper and gone to bed. Doyle had a quick meal, showered and went to Bodie's room. 

"Bodie!" He rapped on the door. "Can I come in?" 

"All right," said a gloomy voice. 

Doyle entered and looked about. "Spartan, isn't it?" he remarked. "Always surprised you don't have a hay-net slung up in here in case you get peckish in the night. Care for some company?" 

"I'm warning you," said Bodie, looking up from his book, "I'm knackered." 

"Just for once," said Doyle, "stop assuming we are all after your body. It's not that attractive, you know. I want to talk to you." 

"What about?" asked Bodie, putting down his book. "Wouldn't rather rub my back, would you? It's been giving me gyp." 

"No," said Doyle, "I wouldn't. Oh, all right. Come on, roll over. My God ... What happened to you? Get those scratches from fun-loving Amy's fingernails?" 

"I have not," said Bodie with restraint, "spent my time making mad, passionate love to Amy all over Dublin as those papers were saying. Her husband was on the Show Committee and I was asked to take her round. Think I drew the short straw. Had to keep stopping her unbuttoning my tunic in taxis." 

Doyle chortled. "Wish I'd seen it - you having to fight for your virtue. Well, then, Butch, where did you get them?" 

"Fell into some wire in Galway," said Bodie sleepily. "Um, that feels good. Hey, that hurt!" 

"Good," said Doyle. "Was meant to. Go on, get some sleep. I can see you're not going to be riveting company. You can pass me your book. I'm going to stay right here so I can bend your ear first thing in the morning before you escape to the damned stables." 

Bodie moaned in protest, passed over his book, rolled over and was asleep in moments. 

Wish I could do that, thought Doyle regretfully, starting his inevitable battle with his chronic insomnia. 

 

He awoke with a crashing headache. 

'S not fair, he thought, I'm practically teetotal. 

Bodie entered the room with a large mug of coffee and two aspirins. "I told you to wear your glasses last night, didn't I?" he remarked. 

"Shut your face," said Doyle, taking the coffee and aspirins. He surveyed his companion critically. 

Bodie presented his usual early morning spectacle, dressed in a well-worn shirt, old shabby breeches held up with what Doyle swore were his grand-dad's braces, and wellington boots - or at this moment large woolly socks as Bodie had heeled his stable-soiled boots off in the passageway. He hadn't shaved either. 

"Jennie should see you now," said Doyle. "Knock that crush she has on you for six." 

"Hasn't affected yours yet," said Bodie with smug satisfaction. 

"I wouldn't get too secure, my lad," warned Doyle. "We are going to have words when I can get my strength up." He looked out of the window. "Looks good out. Fancy a stroll round my garden first?" 

Doyle pulled on his robe and slippers and trotted out, coffee mug in hand. It was already pleasantly warm in the sheltered rear garden. He took a deep lungful of fresh country air, then moved upwind of the stables, after first having a word with Flash and ignoring Piper, who was hammering on his door for attention. Bodie passed him, muttering, laden with bucket, shovel and hay-net. 

Doyle moved on to the vegetable garden, which was looking very trim now with its soldierly rows of beans and peas, paths neatly lined with brick and old-fashioned pinks. The courgettes were doing very well, he noted. A pity the most prolific vegetables were never popular. Maybe if he smothered them in cheese sauce and kept Bodie talking - not a difficult feat - he wouldn't notice what he was eating. 

He moved to the bench set nearby and settled to enjoy his coffee. Bodie joined him just as he was working out where he could put an onion bed. He sat down beside Doyle, stretched, and slung an arm round his shoulders. 

"Doing well, aren't they?" said Doyle, pointing at a very vigorous row of beetroot. 

"Not bad at all," said Bodie. "You're getting to be quite a gardener. Be putting in for the 'biggest marrow' soon." 

"Over there," Doyle pointed. "Behind the rhubarb. Go and have a look." 

Bodie did and emitted a loud whistle as he surveyed the obese specimen resting regally on its well-manured bed. 

"A whopper," he said reverently. 

"It's Ashley's really," Doyle admitted. "He comes and feeds it twice a week with something disgusting. He has three others round the village but says this one is the most promising. Doesn't have the right conditions at home, he says. Yeah - " he looked about " - things are going well. I've found that when I get stuck writing, if I come out here and attack the greenfly or something it stops me rolling on the floor in there, chewing the carpet. I get ideas, too. It's going to be a fine day." 

"Yes," said Bodie. "I could do with some coffee." 

Doyle passed over the rest of his mug. Bodie got up and looked over the garden as he drank it. 

"It's good to be home," he said. "I don't find it very pleasant in Dublin these days. Ten, even five, years ago no-one cared that I had a brother in the British Army, or that I was an Anglo. Now I'm slightly suspect, not real Irish. Anglos didn't bother that I was serving in what they still call the Free State Army, or that I was a Catholic - just put it down to an aberration on my part. After all, I had the right background and all that rubbish. Now I find their doors are shutting, too. When I travel with the horses it's easier, and when I served abroad, of course. But now, back in Dublin..." He shrugged. 

"Blast them to hell," said Doyle. "What bloody right do they have to look down their noses at you? You do a great job with the team, and nearly got yourself killed in the Middle East, serving there with their piffling army! Got scars there you'll carry to your grave - and which give you gyp when it's cold. Lousy politicians. Always thought they were a scummy lot!" 

"Yes, well..." said Bodie. "I've been going down to Galway at weekends every chance I get. I still have some good friends left down there. I've been getting in some hard riding to let off steam. Stop me knocking heads together in Dublin - or worse." 

"I heard about Galway," said Doyle. "Little bird told me." 

"Rory Kepple is an old woman," said Bodie. "Knew he'd go bleating to Jack. I'm thinking of packing it in, Ray. Don't know how much more I can take before I go and do something daft." 

"This has been going on for some time, hasn't it?" said Doyle quietly. 

Bodie looked at him in surprise. "Yes, it has. I thought I'd done a good job at keeping it to myself. It's not the country I grew up in any more - everything is changing." 

Doyle sighed. "Look, Bodie, I understand how you feel, but don't let those shits make you give up a job you enjoy. And for God's sake stop risking your life with those bloody bastards in Galway!" 

Bodie grinned and sat down beside him again. "That's my Ray," he said fondly, giving him a friendly hug. 

Doyle extricated himself with a sniff. "You need a shower," he said firmly. "And a shave. Your face feels like sandpaper. Leave some hot water for me." 

"Could have one together," suggested Bodie hopefully. 

"No, I'd much rather take a look at those beans and de-slug the hostas," said Doyle. 

"The ultimate put-down," said Bodie. "You prefer a slug hunt to me." Mournfully he made his way showerwards. 

Doyle, unmoved, continued his inspection. When he finally arrived in his kitchen, shaved, showered and in fine fettle, Bodie was working through his breakfast. A small white plastic bag lay near his plate. 

Doyle glanced at it casually, then went to fetch their mail. 

"Would I like to attend a literary luncheon on the 17th of August? No, Halliwell warned me about this one. Said if I went he wouldn't be answerable for the consequences. Invite to the drag hunt dinner - for both of us. You can tell 'em how bad my leg is on the night." Doyle leaned over the table and poked the white plastic bag; it felt squishy. "Bodie, what the hell have you got in there?" he inquired. 

"Just a sample," said Bodie, buttering another slice of toast. "I'm sending it off to the lab to get a worm egg count done." 

"Get it off the table!" said Doyle loudly. "Now, please, Bodie! I can't eat with that sitting there." 

"I'm looking for a Jiffy bag," said Bodie with an injured air. "Don't know what you're upset about. I've never caught anything off a horse." 

"That's debatable," said Doyle. "Now, Bodie!" 

Bodie removed the offending object to the bench in the passage, then returned to bury himself in the current issue of Horse and Hound, after admiring his portrait on the front. 

"Should ask them for a copy of that," said Doyle. "Then you can put it up in your room and admire yourself twenty-four hours a day." 

"They sent me one," said Bodie. "I'm going to give it to you for your birthday." 

"You're too kind," said Doyle. "Pass the marmalade." 

There was silence for a while, with Bodie immersed in the Hunt news. 

"I see old Colonel Somerfield's gone, then," he remarked cheerfully. "He fell on his head jumping a high bank. Well on into his eighties. Not bad that. That's the way I'd like to go, Ray." 

Doyle put down his knife before he was tempted to use it. 

"Bodie, that's just like you," he said bitterly. "No thought for others. First we would have to catch your horse and lug your misbegotten carcase home. There'd be an inquest, our names in the papers, reporters around disturbing my work. Why can't you just settle to die quietly and decently of cirrhosis of the liver like all your other boozing, fox-hunting mates?" 

Bodie, unmoved by all this, read on. He reached the For Sale section. "Ray...?" he started. 

"No," said Doyle. "We can't afford it. What is it?" 

"A horsebox," said Bodie. "Be very useful. Right size for Piper, too." 

Doyle looked at him. "Planning on taking him to the seaside, are you? Or perhaps you've had an invite to ride with the Whaddon again? Now, Bodie, you know my views on..." 

Bodie looked at the clock. "I'd better get over and see Jack about the meet," he said. "I'll call in on Jess, then I want to take Piper out this afternoon. He's getting fat and sluggish - needs livening up. You coming out with me? Flash could do with a hard gallop too, if you can make it." 

"Might as well," said Doyle. "I need to get out, I'm starting to twitch over the book. But you're galloping on your own. I'm not having Flash straining anything." 

 

Later in the evening Doyle was resting on the sofa, stretching out with pleasure as he loosened all the kinks in his back. 

"'S true, you know," he said, looking affectionately at Bodie, who was searching in the drinks cupboard. "A good gallop does get you in the mood. Must be all the adrenalin." 

"Always knew it," said Bodie. "Will whisky suit you?" 

"Yes," said Doyle. "And bring over the salted almonds - if you haven't eaten them all." 

"Like me to peel you a grape while I'm at it?" Bodie inquired politely. 

"Only if you can find one," said Doyle. "Oh, God, it's raining again. Better get the buckets in position." 

He hurried out of the room. 

Bodie presently joined him on the upper landing. Doyle was looking moodily up at the place from whence the drips were falling in steady plops into the bucket at his feet. 

"I swear the hole's getting bigger," said Doyle. "Wouldn't like to climb up there and stick your finger in it, would you?" 

"That's got to be fixed," said Bodie in an autocratic manner. "I had more than enough of leaking roofs in Ireland. Can't we get it done?" 

"Only if we have two thousand pounds for a new roof," said Doyle. "Otherwise it's a case of patching, and it's patched to extinction already. With being a listed building we have to have real tiles, not that modern grot. You haven't got two thousand spare, I suppose?" 

"I haven't two thousand, period," said Bodie. "Can't we take out a second mortgage or something?" 

"At the present rate of play we'll be old dodderers by the time we get our first mortgage paid off," said Doyle, "the way the interest rate is going up. Could start economising, I suppose." 

A look of horror crossed Bodie's face. "Never mind," he said hastily. "With luck we'll come up on the Irish Sweepstake this year. I've got two tickets." 

He said this with what Doyle referred to as 'the happy optimism of the halfwitted' as they returned to the kitchen. 

"Must be ten degrees colder upstairs," said Doyle, reseating himself on the couch. "Hurry up. The Mummy's Curse is starting in a minute." 

Bodie settled beside him, glass in hand. "Never have films like this on Telefis Eireann," he said. "And anyway, you can't hear yourself think in the Officers' Mess in the evening with everyone talking away." 

"You know," said Doyle, "that's the only good reason you've ever given me for moving to Dublin. Talk's on a very high level, is it?" 

"Of course," said Bodie. "The cost of hay, what to do about saddle-galls, and whether that woman who keeps the Magic Lantern in Westmoreland Street ever comes across." 

"And does she?" inquired Doyle with mild interest. 

"Ah, well now..." began Bodie. "Film's starting." 

They settled down to enjoy it, Doyle as usual falling asleep halfway through. 

"Who won?" he inquired, woken by the final crashing chords. 

"Wasn't fair," said Bodie. "He got shot in a swamp. Only needed some affection - just like me. I'm hungry. Supper?" He looked hopefully at Doyle. 

"Kitchen's that way," said Doyle. "Every leave I have to retrain you." 

To his surprise Bodie got up and made them some very passable sandwiches. He viewed Bodie with instant suspicion. 

"How would you like to come to Hickstead with me?" asked Bodie as they ate. "It could be for the last time. Lads have been doing well and if they can keep it up they have a chance of competing at the Toronto Winter Fair. I'd like to finish on a high. We could have a second honeymoon at Niagara Falls. They say it's very romantic." 

"I can't think why," said Doyle. "Just watching all that water wastefully flowing away. And for your information we didn't have a first honeymoon, romantic or otherwise." 

"We did too!" said Bodie. "I took you to Paris with the team. It couldn't have been more romantic." 

Doyle gave a hollow laugh. "Oh, yeah? I spent all my time rubbing wintergreen on your bad back, listening to the lads and their problems of the heart, and helping with those smelly beasts. All I didn't do was see Paris - except from the back of a horsebox," he added in fairness. "By the way, did you put that clothes-line up for Mrs P.?" 

"I did," said Bodie, "twice. She changed her mind, twice. Well, are you coming with me - act as my liaison? All expenses paid..." 

"The Irish Government's idea of expenses," said Doyle bitterly, "is to save on hotels by having us sleeping in the boxes, or in tents, and leaving us to find our own food. Surprised they don't want us to swim the horses back home to save on the boat fare." 

"They wouldn't do that," said Bodie. "Too tiring for the horses. Well, are you coming?" 

"Might as well," said Doyle. "You're not fit to be left on your own, especially when fun-loving Amy's on the prowl again." 

oOo 

Doyle shivered and pulled the horse-blanket closer round his shoulders. Its owner was performing, he hoped with distinction, in the Hickstead show ring. He glanced out of the horsebox at the rain which was still pouring down. Oh, to be in England, as Mr Browning had said from sunny Italy. Murphy's Law, that's what it was, pouring with rain in flaming June. Now, at the big indoor events in the autumn the sun would be cracking the flagstones outside and the riders passing out with heatstroke in the collecting ring. He scratched his leg idly, then looked with sudden suspicion at the hay bale he was sitting on. 

"Fancy a cup of tay, Mr Doyle?" said a cheery Irish voice. 

"I would, Michael," said Doyle. "Bloody cold, isn't it?" 

Michael agreed heartily and brought him a steaming cup of tea. Doyle began to warm his hands around it. 

"So how are the lads doing then?" he inquired. 

"Not well, Mr Doyle," said Michael lugubriously. "You wouldn't credit that Shawney could get twenty-six faults. Sure, it's impossible to get twenty-six faults. Then he fell off the sodding horse. They think it's a broken ankle." 

"Not the horse?" said Doyle, concerned. 

"Ah, no, just Shawney. The Red Cross have him now. Hope they can strap him up - we'll need him for the final. For all the good he is." 

"Do better flogging him to the opposition," said Doyle. "And if he can't ride who's going to take the horse round?" 

"The Commandant was thinking he'd throw a leg over the beast. That's if he can get permission. Class should be nearly over now." He hurried off. 

Doyle put down his mug and pulled on his green wellies. After another look outside he added his cagoule. He was going to find Bodie and have a word with him. 

He set off across the boggy ground, working his way through the green-husky-jacketed crowd. How did I ever get in with this lot? he thought. 

At that moment his boot become stuck in a very deep, muddy hole. After some tugging it came free with a squelch. The security man at the gate checked his pass and let him through to the stabling area. One of the lads passed him with a bucket of water. 

"Suspected strain, Mr Doyle," he said. 

"Bugger!" said Doyle. 

He glanced into a stall and saw a shirt-sleeved Bodie talking to the show vet; they were both inspecting a very depressed-looking horse. 

"If that swelling doesn't go down then there's no way that horse can jump tomorrow, Commandant. You know what to do. I'll see him in the morning." 

"Thank you," said Bodie gloomily as the vet left. He began to soak the bandage in the water. 

"Anything I can do?" asked Doyle. 

"You can come and hold his head while Pat and I fix this," said Bodie. "Poor old fella's feeling very sorry for himself." 

They put the bandage on, Bodie inspecting it carefully. "There you are, me darlin'," he said finally. "Should feel better now." 

"I'll go and find his rug," said Pat. "Some ejit's gone and moved it." 

"Anyone checked Shawney at the Red Cross?" asked Doyle hurriedly. "Like me to go and do it?" 

"At the moment," said Bodie, "I don't care if he's been painlessly destroyed. He's left me a rider short - if this fella can go tomorrow." 

"You can send Mat round," said Doyle. "His horse was eliminated, wasn't it?" 

"No," said Bodie, "he tripped over a tent-peg last night: he's got a black eye and a broken wrist. He can't ride. Looks a mess, the great lump." 

"They can fly a substitute over from Dublin, surely?" said Doyle. "Be here in a couple of hours." 

"Not allowed," said Bodie. "If Shawney can't go I'm going to take the horse round myself. If he's fit, that is - and I can get permission." 

"He's fit!" said Doyle. "And what about you? Bodie, it's fucking dangerous out there, and you ..." 

"Oh, fuck," said Bodie. "Now look, so I've a stiffish leg and limited grip in my right hand. There's nothing out there I don't jump out hunting all the time." 

"What about that flaming double bank for a start?" said Doyle. "The look of it gives me the horrors." 

"It's not that bad," said Bodie. "You saw young Annette jump it last year and her just a slip of a girl." 

"I did," said Doyle, "and I know why her Dad's hair turned snow-white." 

"Now, look," said Bodie, "I'm not pulling my team out when we've got a good chance of a place. You'll just have to keep your eyes shut when I go round. If I do break my neck you'll be sure to hear." 

"Bodie!" Doyle was just revving up when Pat appeared with the missing rug. 

"Found it right over in the green horsebox," he remarked as they settled Thady (Connemara Lad) down for the night. 

Doyle then called at the Red Cross to find that Shawney had been swept off to the local hospital with suspected concussion and a broken ankle. Speculating mildly on how they could diagnose concussion with that one, Doyle went over to see how he was. 

Shawney turned out to be settling down well, happily surrounded by delightful nurses with whom he was flirting like mad. But it was confirmed that even without his suspected concussion, his broken ankle made him a non-starter in the team. 

Doyle returned to the show ground and made his report to Bodie. Might as well enlist and be done with it, he thought. Then he joined the team, who were busy cleaning their tack and discussing where they could eat that evening. 

"Thought we were going to that Indian place with the French team?" said Doyle. 

"Ah, no, Mr Doyle. We had a slight difference of opinion there." 

"Oh," said Doyle. He looked at his companions: three pairs of blue eyes and one of brown and black gazed back at him. Doyle inspected the shiner with interest. 

"Couldn't swear to it, of course, Mat," he said, "but I think that tent-peg you tripped over had knuckles." 

"Ah, but you should see the other fella, Mr Doyle," said Mat. "And sure he deserved it. You'd have thumped him too." 

Doyle sighed and prayed news of the fight would be kept from Bodie. He picked up a piece of leather. "Shove the saddle soap over," he commanded. 

oOo 

Next morning, up with the lark, Doyle sniffed the comparatively fresh air with appreciation and banged on his bucket. Immediately every stall had an inquiring equine head peering over it. 

"The only thing that really interests you lot is food," he said bitterly. "Which side shall I start on, Michael?" 

"The left side, Mr Doyle," said Michael, who was working round with a bucket and shovel. They moved down the stalls, dodging as the beasts rushed to get their big heads in the first of the day's rations. 

"Nothing like having the water laid on," said Michael appreciatively. "Wish I had a pound for every bucket I've carried in me time. Conditions for the horses are very good here. Wish they'd do something for us. Well, now, and what do you say to a quick drag and a cup of tay before we start mucking out? While those beasts are filling their stomachs?" 

"Good idea," said Doyle heartily. 

Under Bodie's firm regime no-one was allowed a quick cigarette when he was around, but in the happy absence of Himself and the rest of the team at early Mass, they could indulge themselves in the vice. Doyle was not quite sure if Michael was a backsliding Catholic or an extreme nicotine addict, but the fact was they often found themselves having a furtive smoke together in the early morning. 

Michael inhaled deeply with pleasure. "It may put tar in your lungs, Mr Doyle," he said, "but it surely kills the smell of horse." 

Doyle, looking up, agreed. "And how's Thady's leg this morning?" he inquired. 

"Seems better," said Michael, "but whether he can go is up to the vet. You know, we are the only team here that does its own mucking out. Even the Brits have help now. Polishing our tack, feeding the beasts, living in those damned tents. Those German riders now, they just do their round and toss the reins to a groom and off they go to London in their Porsches, dancing the night away in those terrible West End nightclubs full of half-naked women." He sighed regretfully. 

"Never mind," said Doyle bracingly. "Think how much good the fresh air out here is doing you." 

"We get too much bloody fresh air, and that's a fact, Mr Doyle! Now, what we really need is ... Mother of God, there's the truck!" 

Two cigarettes were hurriedly swilled away, followed by a couple of squirts with the air freshener. Bodie strolled in, buttons gleaming. He sniffed the air and raised an eyebrow. 

"Vet called yet?" 

"No, sir," said Michael. 

Bodie nodded. "Mr Doyle," he said, "you'd better go and have your breakfast. I have matters to discuss with the team." 

Doyle looked at him. Oh God, he's heard, he thought. As he left, Bodie snapped out an order in Irish and the team came to ramrod attention. 

Doyle made his way to the main dining-room, pausing to accept an invitation from the Italian team for a joint party and meal in the evening (all Italian teams are well-known for their enthusiasm for food and jollity). Doyle looked at the food displayed at the self-service counter with revulsion and selected the least unwholesome-looking, cheering at the thought of the evening meal. He was just reading a purloined Sunday paper - to avoid having to look at his plate - when Bodie joined him. 

"Slap and Tickle in Royal Mews, We Uncover Sordid Sex Scandal," read Bodie. "Not your sort of paper, this. What's that on your plate - Whiskas?" 

"Not while I'm trying to eat it, please," said Doyle. "And stop telling lies. It isn't that on the front at all. Just Sam Fox's chest, as usual. Wish I could make her money showing mine. Finished flaying the lads, have you?" 

"Yes," said Bodie. "I went easy on them." 

Doyle looked at him doubtfully. 

"Well," Bodie went on, "I nearly slugged good old Philippe myself yesterday. Some sod got in touch with The Irish Times, so Dublin were on the line first thing this morning. Think I've calmed them down. Fretting about our image again. I've been on to the hospital - no way Shawney can ride. So I've made an appointment to see the Show Committee to get permission to ride the horse myself. Horse has been cleared by the vet. I think I'll forego breakfast." 

"You're not missing much," said Doyle, moodily chewing a slice of cotton wadding disguised as toast. "And you know something, Bodie, I'm getting fed up with our celibate existence. It isn't natural." 

"Trust you to be in the mood when we can't do anything about it," said Bodie. "And stop reading the News of the World - it only makes you think about it." 

After Bodie had departed to see the Committee, Doyle placed orders for twelve well-filled batches to be delivered to their quarters for lunch, with a large consignment of Guinness, then walked back to their 'barracks', where everyone was busy burnishing boots, belts and buckles for the main events. 

"I've arranged lunch," said Doyle as he was handed a length of curb chain. 

Puts me in mind of bondage, this, he thought as he got busy with the metal polish. He happily visualised his mate fastened to a brass bedstead with lengths of curb chain, regretfully deciding Bodie would be most unlikely to go along with the idea. He tended to be very conservative where such matters were concerned. 

Doyle was well along with the polishing when Bodie arrived. 

"I'm on," he announced. "I'm going to try for a clear round. Can't promise a fast one, Thady will be carrying extra weight with me. Now, from what we have seen of the course, the main problem is going to be..." 

Doyle tuned him out and started working on a story-line as he began another length of chain, his mind still dwelling wistfully on bondage. 

The batches and Guinnesses arrived and everyone fell on them like famished wolves, then started discussing tactics again. Doyle decided he had heard more than enough about horses and set off to stretch his legs. When he returned Bodie was stuck in his tiny office-cum-bedroom writing out forms. Doyle squeezed himself into the only place to sit - the bed - and looked about. 

"Surprised you haven't come down with galloping claustrophobia in here," he remarked. "It's scandalous what they expect you and the lads to put up with. Have you seen the other teams' vans? Bloody palaces, some of them. Even the horses are bedded down better than you are." 

"They should be," said Bodie. "They do all the work. There's a parcel for you. Jess called with it." 

Doyle brightened on seeing the postmark. "So it's finally off the presses," he said. "Did you tell Jess you were jumping this afternoon?" 

"Yes," said Bodie. "Ashley dashed off to phone the village. They'll all be looking in." 

"Let's hope it's not to see you being carried off on a stretcher, then," said Doyle. "You smell expensive, by the way. New shaving lotion you're trying out to kill the smell of horse, is it?" 

"Pressie from Amy," said Bodie. "She looked in to wish me luck with a party from the local Hunt." 

"How kind," said Doyle with an ominous note in his voice. 

"Oh, screw this," said Bodie. "I'm going to get some practice in." 

"And I'm off to look at my book," said Doyle. "See you later." 

Bodie nodded and left for the stables. Doyle climbed into the half-empty main stand. Only the children's classes were on at the moment - incredibly boring, unless you were a fond parent watching little Nigel making a pig's ear of it. Doyle settled down to read with only the occasional scream from some thwarted child rider disturbing him. 

Twenty minutes later he was sitting looking gloomily at his book, reflecting that the only thing about it which he really liked was the illustration on the dust-wrapper. Then he was joined by Jess, Ashley, a well-scrubbed Miranda and a large picnic basket. He accepted a meat pie and a plastic mug of very indifferent tea gracefully but soon announced that his leg was cramping badly and that he needed to walk a while to stretch it. He was in fact going slowly out of his mind listening to the shrill voices of the two children as they dissected every rider's style, dress and mount. 

He climbed down from the stand and went to look for Bodie. As he expected, he was putting his horse through its paces in the exercise area. Con was seated on the fence watching and eating a large hot dog, washed down with Coke. 

"Fancy a Coke, Mr Doyle?" he inquired, waving a can. 

"No, thanks, just had some tea," said Doyle. He had long ago worked out why even Bodie's iron digestion fell apart at shows - you never had time to eat properly. "Looks good," he said, indicating the horse. 

"He's just a little fresh," Con began. "And will you look at that now. He just went up into the sky and stayed there!" 

Which was just about what he did. Doyle held his breath until the horse stopped his waltzing about on two legs and he could see that it and Bodie were still together. 

"I hope," said Doyle when Bodie had matters under control again, "he won't pull that little caper in the ring." 

"Funny little ways, this one," said Bodie as the beast made an unsuccessful attempt to jam his leg on the corner fence-post. Bodie climbed down and accepted a can of Coke. 

"Better get my ejit out now," said Con, hurrying off. 

"Hold him a minute, will you?" said Bodie. 

Doyle took the horse and they looked at each other in mutual dislike. Doyle noticed that Bodie was stretching carefully. 

"Anything up?" he inquired. 

"Bastard's just given me a stitch, that's all," said Bodie. "So how does the book look?" 

"Looks fine," said Doyle. "It's what's inside that's bothering me. I'm getting bad vibes about this one, Bodie." 

"Now, listen," said Bodie, "it's a good book. Not a cheerful book, I grant you. But it's well-researched, well-written and worth reading - which is more than you can say about most of the crap published today." 

"My biggest fan," said Doyle with a grin. "Doesn't help that you're prejudiced." 

"Not about your work," said Bodie as he started to remount. "Ray, give me a leg up, will you?" 

Doyle did so and watched for a moment in concern, but Bodie seemed to be coping so he made his way back to the main show ground. He began to mooch about the stands to pass time before the main event and finally found himself in the WI tent, gazing at the 'Make a Garden in a Saucer' display. 

Astonishing what those kids can do, he thought. All I ever grew was carrot tops, and that was for the rabbit. He passed on to the display of pickles and chutneys; Jess appeared at his side. 

"You wait till you see the ones I'm entering for the village fête," she said. "Bread and butter pickles - thank you for letting me have all those courgettes to make them with. I've put six jars in your pantry. All the village will be looking in this afternoon. Ashley's that excited. I had to come out and find them some more crisps. Have them coming out of their ears shortly. Are you coming back to sit with us?" 

"Er, no," said Doyle. "I'd better stay by the monitor. I might be needed. Here, get them some popcorn from me, too." 

He saw Jess and the packages back to the stand: the children were still distressingly vocal and so he made his way to the collecting ring. The usual controlled panic was taking place: people pulling on boots, setting caps straight, pulling tunics into order. Doyle, an old hand at this now, checked back views and gave the odd jacket a twitch into place. He looked about for Bodie. 

"Himself had to go and see the vet," said Con. "We are the second to last to go in. Ah, here he is now." 

Doyle saw with relief that Bodie was already mounted and the team formed up and moved out. They made a brave show, Doyle considered, and he was not prejudiced. He had just settled by the BBC monitor when he heard his name being called. It was Shawney, balanced on two crutches and supported by a young lady whom Doyle remembered seeing in a nurse's uniform at the hospital. Between them they got him safely into the stand, wittering on happily about how good it was of Himself to see he was let out so he wouldn't miss everything. 

Doyle, whose own stomach was now turning cartwheels, would have been happy to swop his seat in the stands for a nice quiet hospital bed any time. After ten minutes he could take no more and left for the buffet tent, the gasps from the crowd and the announcer's voice keeping him in touch. He was just starting on a revolting yellow scone when a French rider left his horse at speed and exited on a stretcher. Sadly it was not 'good old Philippe'. 

Doyle gave up on his scone and went back to the collecting ring. Most of the team were back, busy comparing notes. Con went two faults; only a British rider and Bodie to go now. 

"It's going to be a damn close thing, Mr Doyle," said Michael. 

"As the Duke said," Doyle remarked. "Wellington at Waterloo," he added, seeing Michael's mystified face. 

"Ah, yes," said Michael. "A Dublin man." 

"I see Dave's going," said Doyle as the British rider started his round. 

He heard the crowd's incredulous murmur as his horse refused; it jumped at the second attempt but then had a brick out of the wall. Doyle found that even he was beginning to count points. 

Bodie, his face expressionless, took his horse into the ring, saluted and started his round, jumping his horse, as a British rider standing next to Doyle remarked, "Just like a bloody copybook." 

Doyle, however, was also noticing that Bodie was not so much pale as grey with it. There was a roar and cheer from the crowd: a clear round. 

Doyle sighed with relief as the placings were announced: second, best they had done that year. The lads should get their trip to the Winter Fair at Toronto for sure. Pity he couldn't stand Niagara Falls but still you couldn't beat Canadian hospitality. He watched with pride as his team paraded to pick up their award. No doubt about it, his lads were the best. 

They came back into the collecting ring, Doyle joining them just as Bodie dismounted and collapsed in a rather untidy heap. He reached Bodie neck and neck with the St. John Ambulance man. 

"Nothing to worry about, Mr Doyle," said Con breezily. "Sure, he has a touch of groin strain. The doc gave him a shot so he could get round. I expect it's worn off." 

Doyle was speechless for a moment as he looked at Bodie's pallid face, then saw he was firmly taken to the Red Cross tent. He hurried to the stand to give Jess the news. Lord Bicester had now appeared there (Doyle hoped) to remove Miranda, who was rapidly getting out of hand. 

Doyle then returned to the Red Cross tent to find Bodie lying down, being cheered up by a British rider lugubriously telling him how a groin strain can put a real blight on some of life's happier moments. Bodie started to laugh and regretted it. 

A doctor appeared and said that what Commandant Bodie really needed was peace, quiet and to be flat on his back taking things very easily for the next few days. 

"You will not wish to do anything else," he assured Bodie grimly. 

Bodie, attempting to dispute this, moved, gasped and agreed the doctor could have something. He then instructed Doyle to see the lads and tell them that after the horses were set for the night to go and enjoy themselves at the customary last night party. He also requested that Doyle went and did the same, and to stop watching him like a hawk as he wasn't about to expire and it was getting on his nerves. Oh, and maybe he'd better ring Dublin and tell them what had happened so they could confirm Con in charge, and to please remember to tell them that we did rather well. 

Doyle sighed deeply and went off to look for a telephone. Why, he asked himself, is it always me who has to negotiate with headquarters? 

Dublin, in fact, were mildly displeased to hear that their Chef d'Equipe was now out of action, though elated at the team's success. 

"We'll all be celebrating tonight here!" But no, they did not consider putting Captain O'Brien in charge to be a sensible move. They would send Mrs O'Riordan over in the morning, and now, about those forms they had requested. Perhaps Mr Doyle could find out what had happened to them? 

Doyle asked them to give him the numbers and said he would see what he could do. He took down a long list of forms required in triplicate. Bad as the Met, he thought. Duty done, he went to give Bodie the news. 

A faint smile crossed Bodie's face. "So they're sending Mari, are they? Ray! You'd better get along and warn Con to keep them within some sort of limit." 

By the time Doyle caught up with the lads, celebrations were well under way. Michael was demonstrating how to dance a jig to two giggling girls, Con had tried one with a bottle standing on his head and had drenched several people in warm Guinness. He was now telling a doubtful young lady that she was the one he had been waiting all his life for. He waved at Doyle and ambled over, embracing him affectionately. 

Like being hugged by an alcoholic Labrador, Doyle thought as he extricated himself. 

"Con," he said firmly, "Mrs O'Riordan will be over from Dublin in the morning. She will be taking over the team." 

Con looked at him hopefully. "Ah, you're having a little joke now, aren't you, Mr Doyle?" 

"No," said Doyle loudly, "I'm not. And Commandant Bodie says you're to see things don't get too much out of hand." He looked about and wondered why he was bothering. It had all the signs of developing into a hooley to remember. Just then, another member of the team crashed into the room, laden with bottles. 

"Now don't you worry, Mr Doyle," said Con. "Sure we'll all be fit as fiddles tomorrow. And will you be having one with us now?" 

Doyle had a very small one and left the party, hoping for the best. He inquired about Bodie's whereabouts; everyone seemed hell-bent on celebrating and were a trifle incoherent when asked. He finally found Bodie in a van belonging to the British team captain, getting through, in Doyle's opinion, far too much whisky and happily reliving previous encounters. 

Doyle was handed a large glass, drank it, then presented his host with a bottle of Irish from their personal store. The party livened up considerably. Doyle even found himself having an amicable chat with Jack, who informed him he would be taking Bodie back to Larton in the morning. 

"I have the shooting-brake here - soon load him up and off to Highgreen Farm. Jess said she could manage him while you're busy with the team." 

After that Doyle found a more congenial person to talk to; that is, one whose sole topic of conversation did not centre on the stables, and forgot all about Bodie and his problems and anything else of a more weighty nature. 

He awoke the next morning with a crashing headache; someone was hammering on the van door, Doyle having taken over Bodie's office to try and get some sleep, the party still well in progress when he left. He got up gingerly and opened the van door. A brisk-looking lady surveyed him. 

"You are Mr Doyle?" she inquired. 

He nodded a dubious affirmation. 

"Good. I'm Mari O'Riordan. I need to speak to Commandant Bodie. How is he?" 

"Sore mostly," said Doyle brightly. He noticed a very subdued-looking Michael hovering behind the lady. "A visit from you should cheer him up," he added unwisely. 

She gave him a long, measuring look; Doyle just resisted the urge to check his fingernails were clean. 

"I'm not here to cheer him up, Mr Doyle," she announced, "but to find out what needs to be done. That brainless young fool Connor O'Brien doesn't seem to have a clue, and I suspect he is suffering from a hangover." 

And not the only one, thought Doyle as he led her to Bodie, who was still enjoying the luxury of Dave's van and being waited on hand and foot. 

He waved a glass of liquid breakfast at Doyle. "Painkiller," he said cheerily. "Hello, Mari. How's Tim?" 

Mrs O'Riordan shook her head. "Well, Will, and what damn-fool thing have you done now?" she asked. 

Bodie seemed delighted to see her: they were obviously old sparring partners, so Doyle left to see how the lads were faring. Con, a six-foot Bodie in embryo, was swallowing alka seltzers and filling in forms as though his life depended on it. 

"She's an awful woman," he moaned to Doyle. "And God, I've a head on me." 

"Just be thankful it's still on," said Doyle. "Mine's about three foot up there, floating and throbbing away. Was a good party though - what I remember of it." 

"It was that," said Con reminiscently. "And wasn't I doing fine with the lady till Michael told her about Moira, the bugger!" 

"Moira?" asked Doyle. "Your fiancée, or something?" 

"Ah, no," said Con. "The wife, of course. Did I never mention her to you?" 

Doyle shook his head and found Jack Bicester at his elbow. 

"Bodie ready yet?" he inquired. 

"I'll get him," said Doyle. 

Bodie mildly resented being torn away from the arms of several ladies, all totally unknown to Doyle but of a horsy aspect, who had been cheering him up, and looked at Jack's battered shooting-brake with distaste. 

"Plenty of room for you to lie down in the back," said Jack heartily. "I've put some sacks down so you will be quite comfortable." 

Bodie sniffed disdainfully. "What was the last thing you carried in this?" he asked. "A pair of goats?" 

"No," said Jack, "around twenty dead pheasants and two sopping wet red setters. Old Monty Blewett borrowed her - he had an invitation to shoot with HRH in Norfolk. You know what his old van is like." 

"How did he do?" asked Bodie, trying to make himself comfortable. He failed. 

"Not bad at all," said Jack. "Winged one of his host's peacocks - stupid birds - and planted five pellets in Porchy Mayhew." 

"Oh, good," said Bodie. "He tried to stick me with a bad horse once." 

"Not the first time," said Jack. "Now, we had better get you off to Jess's. Don't worry, Ray. We'll see he gets taken care of." 

He started his brake with a jerk that had Bodie's language turning the air blue for miles. Doyle waved them off, relieved that, whatever Jack's competence as a driver, he could rely on him and Jess to see Bodie obeyed his doctor and did what he was told. 

Doyle's journey back to Dublin and McKie Barracks with the team passed without undue incident and, in spite of his misgivings, he enjoyed the trip. He even decided to stay over for a few days, looking up friends, and was invited to be a godfather. He found himself accepting. Con was delighted to show off his family to him, plus his very pretty wife, who seemed to have him well in hand. Doyle held young Sean at the font with great aplomb, but reflected that he must ask Bodie what being a godfather entailed, Bodie having fulfilled that office for the three other children - not a choice Doyle would have approved of for any child of his. 

He telephoned Jess, who informed him that Bodie was recovering slowly but was as yet unable to put boot to stirrup without screaming, but was otherwise mending in a satisfactory manner. Bodie, coming on the phone, disputed this vigorously, but Doyle decided he could be safely ignored. He could do with a few days' holiday himself, fitting in a visit to ex-Captain Higgins, who was now teaching history, to discuss the Campden Wonder, and Bodie's uncle, to catch up on the family news. 

Professor O'Brien was delighted to see him, inquired after the Campden Wonder, and filled Doyle in on his own magnum opus on medieval Ireland and his battles with his publisher on the matter of illustrations. 

"Cheeseparing philistines," said the Professor savagely. 

Doyle happily recounted atrocity stories of his own publisher, then they set to and demolished the magnificent high tea that Mrs Cadogan had set before them. 

"I was so glad you could visit, Raymond," remarked the Professor. "It enabled me to ignore my doctor's advice and partake of this sumptuous feast." 

Doyle looked at him. "Bad as Bodie, you are," he said. "Am I going to have him after me with a hatchet?" 

"Not unless he finds out. One gets so sick of following orders. I'm in no mood to consider my heart. It's never shown the slightest consideration for me." 

"My God," said Doyle, "you are just as bad as Bodie. That's the sort of damn-fool remark he would make." 

"Now there you are," said the Professor. "I always said blood will out. And has Will made up his mind yet? To leave the army and make his home permanently in England?" 

"How should I know?" said Doyle morosely. "I'm going to be the last one he mentions it to. I could strangle him sometimes. Wish he would settle in England. Don't know what he sees in this damn place." 

"Roots are painful things to tear up, Raymond, and even worse, those of a life you chose for yourself. But I think Will should leave now, the day of the Anglo-Irish here is over. It's time he accepted that." 

Doyle glared at him. "A very pretty speech," he remarked, "when most of your great patriots, finest soldiers and writers were Anglos! And considering that Bodie has given the best part of his life to your piddling army. No, I take that back. They do a great job out there for all the bloody thanks they get for it. It's just that when I watch Bodie some mornings when his old wounds are griping him, and he never says a word... I'd like to kick some bloody politician's teeth in!" 

"Quite natural," said the Professor. "I'd feel exactly the same way. But it doesn't alter facts. There is no place here for him now. Will understands that better than you." 

"Romantic Ireland's dead and gone, It's with O'Leary in the grave," said Doyle. "I'm afraid Bodie still sees it that way." 

"It never was, you know," said the Professor. "And now, shall we have a few hands of whist before we take one last turn around the garden? You're staying the night, of course?" 

"Of course," said Doyle. "And let's see how many plants I can smuggle past Customs this time. There was a very pretty little polyanthus you showed me last time - Irish Molly, I think?" 

"Ah, yes. I have a couple of plants spare," said the Professor. "And those two moss roses you fancied are ready to be moved. Now they need a lot of good feeding, remember?" 

"No problem at all with the dobbins," said Doyle with feeling. 

oOo 

Next day Doyle returned to the barracks and made his farewells to the lads. He was inundated with invitations to visit for holidays, and laden with more alcohol than he had a hope of getting through Customs. He was also informed that they all wished he and the Commandant were going to Paris with the team as Mrs O'Riordan's standards of discipline would have been considered exacting by Frederick the Great. 

Doyle was rather touched by this, but pointed out he was needed at home. To his surprise he bade them all a regretful goodbye, even looking down emotionally as he flew home over Ireland's Eye, with its lighthouse flashing. 

He arrived home to find Bodie was now on his feet, limping about, cursing luridly, while in the paddock and stables six strange horses were eating their heads off. 

"And where," Doyle inquired, "have all these extra gee-gees appeared from?" 

"I'm just helping Jack out," said Bodie briskly. "He has some of the Whaddon staying. He ran out of space, so I said we'd have 'em. The other two are Maud's. She's had to go to Cheltenham - that sister of hers is bad again." 

"And who is paying the extra food bill?" asked Doyle. 

"Oh, Jack said he'd see to that," said Bodie vaguely. 

Doyle made a mental note that Jack would indeed see to that and then went to see how his new plants, all safely smuggled through, were getting settled in their new home; it helped to   
keep his mind off the rather discouraging sales figures for his latest book. 

"Said all along it wouldn't do," he remarked to Bodie. "Mind, it would have been nice to be wrong for once." 

Bodie raised a sardonic eyebrow and went on reading The Gretton and Larton Weekly News as Doyle, now well into his stride, raved on, castigating the reading public, his publisher for his crummy advances (of money), the weather, and the fact he had blackfly on the broad beans again. 

"That's it," said Bodie. "I've had enough. Come on, we're going out." He threw Doyle's jacket at him and assumed a commanding air. 

After a short preliminary protest Doyle followed him, remarking that they would probably get bitten by midges and if they had to take that dog would Bodie please see he didn't start hawking things out of the hedge again. 

"Nice evening," said Bodie, looking about with approval. 

There was a grunt from his companion, who was determined not to enjoy himself. Doyle had started to thaw out, however, when Sam spotted Frodo in the distance and launched an all-out attack which was unsuccessful, the cockerel surveying them benignly from the roof of his hen-house as they passed, his adoring harem scratching away beneath him. 

"So that's the bugger who wakes me up at 5 a.m. every morning," said Doyle, looking beadily at the bird. 

"I think he's very handsome myself," said Bodie. "And lucky - with all those ladies." 

"You would," said Doyle. "Oh, good evening, Mr Perkins. Nice lot of birds." 

Mr Perkins agreed and tried to coerce them into buying some of his duck eggs. 

"I'm not eating anything with a bright green shell," said Doyle as they hurried on. "Think he waits in ambush with those eggs. It's not natural to be that colour." 

"It is for a duck egg," said Bodie. "I tried one once, very strong." 

"Now we are at the village," said Doyle, "the Brewers, is it? That's where you usually end up in the evening." 

"Not with Sam," said Bodie. "Their Yorkie had him by the throat last week." 

"Good old Genghis," said Doyle with approval. "Well, here's your pigs..." 

They stopped to admire the pigs, Bodie tossing them a couple of apples from his jacket pocket. 

Doyle surveyed them without enthusiasm. "Must be congenital," he said, "this passion of the minor gentry for pigs - unless you're seeing them on your plate, alongside a couple of fried eggs?" 

"Not in front of them," said Bodie, shocked. "Very intelligent, are pigs." 

"Well, they don't commit hari kari to end up on your plate," said Doyle. "Can't understand you lot. You think nothing of galloping across five counties to kill a fox and you're soppy over pigs." 

"Odd, isn't it?" said Bodie, qualifying his statement with, "I've asked them to accept my resignation as team captain and place me on the retired list." He walked on. 

Doyle followed him slowly. "You want to talk about it, Bodie?" 

"Not at the moment," said Bodie. "The Three Stags? The beer isn't so good but they don't have a slavering Yorkie." 

"Right," said Doyle. Going to have to discuss this, he said to himself. However, his attention was firmly engaged in trying to shut out Mr Stebbins' monologue on his approaching bankruptcy, his sole topic of conversation (besides his wheat) for the past ten years, and keeping an eye on Sam while Bodie played darts, Sam having an unfortunate habit of regarding any other dog who entered the inn after him as a dangerous interloper to be driven away; this applied to much larger dogs, too. 

oOo 

Next morning everything seemed so much brighter, Doyle thought as he looked out at the garden. He could hear Bodie shovelling away in the stable, the birds were singing, all the cats were out sunning themselves... He went back into the kitchen and started another round of toast. Bodie came into the kitchen, a big fat grin on his face. 

"Looks like being a fine day," said Doyle. "And what are you Cheshire catting about?" 

"Just happy memories," said Bodie. "It wasn't a bad night either - and you're blushing," he added with delight. 

"Shut your face!" said Doyle. "Reminds me, I forgot to thump you for leaving me with Fred. He's facing bankruptcy again." 

"Is he?" said Bodie. "That must be why he's bought a new Volvo. Terrible thing being that poverty-stricken." 

"Has he now?" said Doyle. "What's it like? Have some more toast. Have you washed your hands?" 

Bodie held them out and Doyle inspected them dubiously. 

"It's green," said Bodie, after some thought. "You know I'm not interested in cars. I wish we could afford a horsebox." 

"And," said Doyle, "a car to pull it. I'm not having one fastened on the back of the Merc, and anything heavier than a cockle-stall on yours and it would fall apart." 

Bodie nodded at that and started on his toast. There was a contented silence, then the telephone rang. 

"Oh, God, Bodie. If it's London, my leg is acting up. I can't get off the sofa." 

"You told Halliwell that last week," Bodie reminded him as he picked up the telephone. "Parsons Farm. Morning, Jack. The little bugger. No, don't worry, we can manage. I'll be damn glad when I can ride again. Yeah, I know you bet you could. Right." He put the phone down. "Jack can't get over to exercise the horses today. He has to go over to Gretton to the police station - there's been another complaint about young Rodney and that damn sports car of his. The lad isn't fit to have a bicycle." 

"So what else is new?" said Doyle. "Tell you what, I can ride out today. I need the exercise and those two of Maud's are no trouble. Can you hang on till I've finished breakfast?" 

"Have to," said Bodie. "I'll saddle her up for you." 

"Ta," said Doyle. "I think you're beginning to appreciate me at last." 

"I better had," said Bodie. "There's a letter in the post from Mari this morning saying that they've done well in Paris and if you fancy acting as liaison on the trip to Canada the job's yours." 

"That's nice," said Doyle, "but no. My horse show days are over - unless it's with you. Really made your mind up, haven't you?" 

"Yes," said Bodie. "It's all right, you know. I'm happy." 

"I know that," said Doyle. "Could tell last night. Now who's blushing?" 

"Too damned clever by half, that's what you are," said Bodie. "Well, do I get a kiss before I struggle out to the stable with me groin?" 

"Have a job going without it," said Doyle. "Don't know why I put up with you. All right, come here then." 

"You know," said Bodie, licking his lips reflectively, "that's very good marmalade." He dodged hurriedly. "I'd better get the horses sorted out." 

 

When Doyle strolled into the yard, after the usual struggle with his boots, he found an exuberant bunch of horses waiting, Jos and Ashley trying to sort them out. 

"Morning, Mr Doyle," yelled Ashley cheerfully. "It's half-term so I'll be able to come over and help every day." 

"Oh great," said Doyle grimly. 

Bodie chuckled and led over Maud's Poppy. "Like a leg up, Ray?" he inquired. 

"I'd prefer the mounting-block," said Doyle. "It keeps its hands to itself, thank you." That was said in an undertone. 

"I'll take Bosun," said Ashley hopefully. 

"You will not," said Bodie. "He's much too fresh and pulls like a train. Jos will take him." 

Ashley, outraged, looked at Doyle for support. Doyle shook his head at him firmly. 

Ashley was directed to Fletcher, Mrs Blackett's other mount, a dun-coloured creature with as much vivacity as Flash. Ashley looked at him in disgust, then performed his Pony Express mount, as shown in the current cinema programme. Bodie told him what he thought of that manoeuvre and ordered him to stop going 'clk clk' to his mount. 

"You're not driving a milkfloat, boy." 

Ashley, unsquashed, giggled but desisted. 

"Think that's it," said Bodie. "Jos, take 'em off along the heath, the roads are getting crowded about this time." 

He went and opened the yard gate and they moved out onto the verge, Jos having problems with Bosun, who was convinced a monster was lurking just outside. 

Doyle looked about, then started up the road towards the church and the lane leading to the open heathland. All he remembered for certain afterwards was the roar of a car engine, something hurtling round the blind corner, Poppy dancing sideways and a scream of brakes. He was lying down somewhere - not a bed, it felt too hard. Where was he? People bending over him, shouting, a coat or something being wrapped around him. People running, everything fading, then another sound and he was being lifted: not as hard now. He caught a glimpse of Ashley, pale and tear-stained, then he was moving. Someone was holding his hand very tightly. Doyle managed to focus his eyes slowly. It was Bodie, and he looked dreadful. 

Why is he looking like that? thought Doyle. 

"You all right, love?" he asked anxiously, oblivious of the ambulance man tucking a blanket more warmly around him. 

"I'm fine," said Bodie; he sounded choked. 

Doyle wondered about that, then tried to move. "Oh God ..." he sobbed with pain, clutching Bodie's hand. 

"Try and keep still, sir," said an unknown voice. "You have had a bad fall." 

So that was it. It seemed very far away. The only real thing was Bodie holding onto his hand - and in public, too. Not like him at all, that. And what was hurting so much? Not that damned leg again! They seemed to have arrived; he was being carried down a long corridor. They wanted him to sign a form. Berks, how could he? Tell 'em, Bodie will do it. Good, they went away and Bodie was back. 

X-ray, he was saying. Sounds funny - must concentrate on what he's saying, thought Doyle. 

"Ray, you've been hurt. They need to patch you up. They are taking you to the theatre shortly. I'll be here when you come out. Understand me?" 

Doyle tried to nod. Bodie seemed to understand because he touched his cheek. If Bodie said it had to be done, that was it. Wonder why he looks so awful? Someone was bending over him, there was a prick and everything faded again. Then he was struggling up through layers of cotton wool. Smelt horrible, too, and he was suddenly in a white, horribly bright room that was very noisy. 

A nurse bent over him, asking how he felt. He tried to tell her he felt lousy but his voice came out all creaky. Then a man in a white coat began poking him and saying that was fine. It wasn't fine at all! And where was Bodie? 

He was back in another damned hospital, he'd worked that out. Leg didn't feel too good, and he seemed to be fastened all down one side. A nurse came back. 

"We are going to make you comfortable now," she said brightly. 

Heard that one before, thought Doyle. Any minute now she'll be swabbing me down with a cold, wet flannel. Anyway, I feel more like a sleep... 

oOo 

Jack Bicester gave up reading the notices on the wall and looked worriedly at Bodie, slumped in the waiting-room. He looks like a whipped hound, he thought, clearing his throat. 

"Came as soon as I could," he said. "They wanted me at the police station again. Was I going to ask for bail for Rodney? Hell, no, I said, You keep the little bastard. A spell in a cell will do him the world of good. I'll kill the lad if you let him out. I'm going to send him out to my brother in New South Wales. He has a sheep station out there. God-forsaken hole it is, too. Might do Rodney some good, though I doubt it. What did the doctor say? Will?" 

Bodie stirred. "Just what I told you on the phone, multiple fractures. They say he's as well as could be expected, which doesn't mean a damn thing. Ray acts like a ball of fire but he's not strong. He has a lot of pain and trouble with that leg. He was saying he's felt so much better since he came to live out here, and now this. I don't know what I'll do if - " 

"Now look here," said Jack. "He's going to be all right. They're very good here, you know that. Just you wait, he'll be nagging away at you again in no time. Will, come home with me. I don't want you staying on your own, and you're nearer the hospital from my place. Jos and I have moved the horses - we've split them between the farm and my place. You can't be worried about them now, too. Jess will take the animals. I've a message for you from Agnes. Do come, she says. Nothing will be said. She likes Ray, you know. Very decent little fella, she says. She meets him when he comes over to see my mother to discuss that historical thing they both have on the brain." 

Bodie nodded. "Thank you, I will. I need to be nearer to Ray. I'd better go home first and collect Amos. He doesn't like going to the farm with the others. And Ray wouldn't want him upset. I'll have him with me." 

"Very snooty little beast, isn't he?" said Jack. "Right, when you're ready I'll drive you up there." 

oOo 

Agnes, Countess of Bicester, spoke into the telephone in her usual measured tones. "No, Charles, I see no reason for you to be so concerned. Yes, I agree, William is an embarrassment, he has been one for years. But he has been less of one since he met Mr Doyle. If you have been promoted this far in spite of William being your brother, I fail to see how he can now jeopardise your career - unless the army has come to its senses about you, of course. No, Charles, I see no need to explain that remark. I see. Really? Winifred said that, did she? How like her. Frankly I cannot understand why you permitted your only daughter to get engaged to one of that family. You know our dear Papa's opinion of Lord Carrick. Goodbye, then. 

"Charles seems to be getting more paranoid every day," she remarked. "All I can say, Jack, is that I'm glad my dear parents did not live to see this day." 

"Your mother would have enjoyed it," said Jack. "She liked nothing better than a good bout of domestic drama. Tiring woman. What's up with the Colonel now, then?" 

"The usual," said Agnes. "Winifred saw Mr Doyle's accident reported in the press and she is afraid it will all come out, with a detrimental effect on Charles's career, of course." 

"Fella's not a damned pop star," said Jack. "No-one cares who writers live with. Never see anything about that fella, what's his name? Wallace! Do you?" 

Agnes struggled with that a moment. "Edgar?" she queried. "Not since he died, anyway." 

"There are you then," said Jack. "Only place Will gets mentioned is in Horse and Hound and The Field - apart from that rubbish about him and the Chaffinch woman. Damned stupid piece! I told you about her cramming that mare last month and nearly bringing down Jessup's gal, didn't I?" 

"You did. Twice," said Agnes. "Now, I'll put Will in the room facing the stables. He should feel right at home there. Do try and keep him off the brandy. Your Uncle Percy said he'd visit next month, by the way." 

"Bugger," said Jack. "Will's taking it hard, you know. He's very attached to young Doyle. I never thought Will would settle down." 

"More than time he did," snapped Agnes, departing to sort out her domestic situation. 

 

oOo  
Doyle progressed from being as well as could be expected, whatever that may have meant, to spending a restless or peaceful night. His sudden detour into giving cause for concern had Bodie at the hospital for one terrible night, then, slowly, he began to mend in earnest. 

Doyle, of course, would have disagreed with all those statements, especially the ones which said he had spent a peaceful night. 

"Bloody impossible, Bodie. They are banging bedpans like tambourines in the sluices at 4 a.m. Have to be dead to sleep through that. I'm sick of this place. The food's awful. You look rotten, what have you been doing with yourself?" 

"Living at Jack's," said Bodie. "You should try Mrs Kedge's cooking. You wouldn't believe what the woman can do to food. I'm surprised Jack hasn't got an ulcer. The only person who eats well is Amos. She cooks him tripe in milk. We all stand round, hoping for a bit from his dish." 

"I hope you're making that up," said Doyle. "Oh, hell. Time to go." 

oOo 

On his next round, Doyle put it to his doctor with some vigour that he really needed to be discharged, and the sooner the better, as the food was killing him, he had work to do and his family needed him. He didn't point out his family was Bodie, of course. 

"Now then, Mr Doyle," said his doctor. "You are going to have to be patient. You are in no condition to be discharged yet. You have four fractured ribs, a broken arm, a displaced shoulder and we had to pin your hip. If you hadn't been wearing protective headgear no doubt that would have needed repair, too. But while you are in here, that knee really does need attention. Have you ever considered a plastic knee joint?" 

"I have not," said Doyle. "I'm not a bleeding Barbie Doll. Leave the poor bugger alone, it's been mucked about with enough." 

"I think you should consider it," said the doctor, moving away. 

Bodie turned out to be on the doctor's side when apprised of the situation. "Now look, Ray," he began and was treated to a moody scowl. 

"And you needn't start," said Doyle. "I'm sick of this place. I think that fella in the next bed's got designs on my body while I'm lying here helpless." 

"Rubbish," said Bodie heartily, after a quick look at the eminently respectable-looking senior citizen reading a copy of The Greenhouse in the next bed. "What's he in for anyway?" 

"New hip," said Doyle gloomily. "Swanks about it all the time, when he's not going on about his grotty allotment. Surprised he didn't arrange to bring it in here with him." 

"I can tell you're getting better," said Bodie happily. "Proper little ray of sunshine you must be for everyone." 

Doyle told him what he thought of him for ten minutes, then looked Bodie over critically. "I need to keep an eye on you," he remarked. "You don't look after yourself. Shouldn't you be in Dublin by now?" 

"I'm still on sick-leave," said Bodie. "My doctor told 'em I'm in agony. Just hope they never see me out galloping in the mornings. Lads send their best to you and a crate of Irish has been delivered for you - came via the Embassy." 

"No doubt you'll help me drink it," said Doyle. "Send them my thanks, will you? I'll write 'em as soon as I can get this arm working again. It's still stiff. Are you really packing in the army, Bodie?" 

"Yes," said Bodie. "I'll go over at the end of the month and get the papers signed. Then they can hand me my bowler hat and minuscule pension. Think you can stand having me round all the time? I can always get an allotment and live in my shed like him if you can't." He looked at Doyle with tragic blue eyes. 

"Fool," said Doyle. "Con a saint, you would. Look, Bodie, you haven't packed it in because of me, have you? I know what that damned place and those horses mean to you. I don't want you regretting it later." 

"No," said Bodie. "I did it for me. I couldn't stand being torn between the two countries any longer, and Ireland isn't home without you there with me. It's time to finish there now. I should have done it before. I'll be glad to be home at last - for good." 

Doyle smiled at him. "Feel the same about it myself. Just wish this damned ward wasn't so public." He stirred and gasped. 

"Ray?" Bodie looked at him anxiously. 

"'S all right. Just my knee being a bitch. I might consider that plastic job after all." 

"Thank God for that!" said Bodie. He grinned. "Fancy a cuddle, did you?" 

"Yeah," said Doyle. "We'll just have to wait. All right, stop looking like a wounded spaniel and tell me any interesting news." 

oOo 

One month later Doyle looked down critically at his 'new' knee. "It's not doing badly at all," he said fairly. "What do you think of it, Bodie? It seems funny getting spare parts at my age." 

Bodie looked at the knee and gulped. "It looks all right to me," he said with an effort. 

Doyle grinned at him. "You're a real softie where I'm concerned, Bodie. And you a big strapping soldier." 

There was a knock on the door of the private room. 

"Come in," said Doyle in a bored voice. "Probably someone wanting to stick a needle in me," he remarked. 

A rather pretty young lady entered, carrying a large bunch of flowers, a cake tin and a covered plate. 

"Mr Doyle?" she inquired hesitantly. "I'm Lily, Mr Simpson's grand-daughter. We all want to thank you for being so kind to grandfather while he was in here having his hip done. You really cheered him up, he said. So I've brought some flowers - they are from his allotment - and some of mother's peach pie, with cream, and a fruit cake. He said you hated the food. He did too." 

Bodie got up and gave her a dazzling smile. She immediately gazed at him, mesmerized, Doyle, for the moment, banished from her thoughts. 

"That's very kind of you," said Bodie. "Ray will really enjoy that pie. The food here really is lousy. And the flowers will cheer him up. How is Mr Simpson?" 

"He's very well," said Lily. "Back working on his allotment all the time. Says the new hip is working a treat." 

"That's good," said Bodie. "Give him our best wishes, will you?" 

"Yeah," said Doyle, looking at his slice of pie and cream with pleasure. "You can tell him I've got a new knee, too. Hey, this is great!" 

"Thank you," said Lily. 

She was somewhat overawed by Doyle, as most were at first, but with Bodie's encouragement started chatting away to them both, finally departing with a well-cleared plate and blushing happily as she said goodbye to Bodie at the door. 

"Blasted baby-snatcher," said Doyle as Bodie returned to him. "Can't you give over for a moment? Nice of the family, though. That cake looks good." 

"And who," said Bodie, "was giving me all that guff about a poor old guy with a bad hip who was after your scrawny body?" 

Doyle squirmed. "I had to complain about something," he protested. "The place was driving me mad. Anyway, he gave me some good tips for my onions." 

"That reminds me," said Bodie. "Ashley will be in tomorrow to show you the cup he's won for that dreadful marrow. He was very disappointed you weren't fit to go up and get it with him." 

"Glad he won," said Doyle. "He put in a lot of work mollycoddling that marrow. I'm going to let him have a strip of our vegetable garden next year. He wants to try out sweet corn - say's he's going to have to diversify when he takes over the farm. Very forward-looking is Ashley." 

"Yes," said Bodie gloomily. "Doesn't take after us at all. Damn, it's nearly time to go." 

"Now we have some privacy you can give me a cuddle first," said Doyle. "And go easy. Don't know your own strength, you big lump. 

"Nice that," he said later. "You're good at this, you know. Must be your misspent life." 

"Years of practice, just so I'd be good for you," said Bodie. 

"Liar," said Doyle. "Going to be a pain in the neck, you are, with your bloody horses." 

"Ah, good evening, Sister," said Bodie, getting up hurriedly. 

"It's after six," said the sister, "and visitors are not allowed to lounge on patients' beds." 

"No, Sister," said Bodie cravenly. "I'll be off then. See you, Ray." 

"Chicken," muttered Doyle. 

oOo

Two months later, at Parsons Farm, Doyle, hopping about with the aid of his crutch, was distracted in his search for his notebook by Mrs Paget coming into the room. 

"Now, now, Mr Doyle," she said. "You know what the doctor said. You should be resting. Here's Mr Bodie coming up the path, so I can leave you in his hands. Dinner's in the oven, all ready to serve. See you eat it." 

Doyle snorted. He had hated his month in physiotherapy, then having to stay at Highgreen Farm for a fortnight while Bodie did God knows what in Ireland. Not that Jess didn't cook like a dream, and he enjoyed taking short walks with Ashley, 'running his leg in', but he wanted to return to his old life as quickly as possible. 

Then, when Bodie did get back, first he spent a couple of days trying to get his car into reasonable condition before taking off on trips all round the Home Counties and even more far-flung places, with no explanation, except that Doyle noted his riding-boots, breeches and hunting jacket were always in the car. As this had always been a strong bone of contention between them he didn't refer to it, just glowered at Bodie, who ignored him. Now Mrs Paget was treating him like a child unfit to be left on its own. Good, she was putting her hat on. He listened as she gave Bodie a full account of his day in all its boring entirety. 

By the time Bodie came into the kitchen, Doyle was spoiling for a fight and he didn't care with whom. 

"That woman," he said, "has to go." 

"You're too sensitive," said Bodie. "She means well." 

He ducked in time to avoid a flying turnip. It crashed rather well into an ornament neither of them had liked but, as a present, had been stuck with. 

"Lucky shot," said Bodie. "That's solved a problem. Shall I dish up?" 

"Might as well," said Doyle. "God, it's been a boring day. High spot was the Red Star delivery dropping off four crates for you from Dublin. I put my ear to them all - none of 'em was ticking. What are you doing home? Couldn't you find anything else to hunt?" 

"Here," said Bodie, putting a plate in front of him. "Get that down you." 

"Not hungry," said Doyle. He poked it suspiciously. 

"Ray, you're underweight, so shut up and eat or I'll inject it into your veins," threatened Bodie. 

"You're asking for your cards, mate," said Doyle, starting to nibble at his food. "So what have you been doing? Halliwell rang, he's coming down end of the week. Said he didn't want me struggling up to London with the new knee. Think his office walls are starting to close in on him again and he fancied an outing." 

"I've got some exciting news for you," said Bodie. "I have a job. You know, off in the morning, back at night. That sort of a job." 

"Oh," said Doyle. "Well, then, what as - international gunrunner, gigolo, amateur cracksman?" 

"You are looking," said Bodie, "at the co-partner and chief instructor at Campden Park Equestrian Centre." 

"Jack's place!" said Doyle. "You're never in business with him? He has even less money than you do." 

"Ah, but we are going to put that right," said Bodie. "It's simple really. He has land, and masses of stabling he can't afford to use. I have expertise going to waste, and I need money to keep my horses. We are going to have to put in some comforts, of course: covered school, new tack-room, place for our pupils to relax and have a meal and a chat - maybe showers. That sort of thing. Came to us when Jack and I were talking things over. So I went about seeing old friends and making contacts. Talking to people I know who have something similar on the go. I know you thought I was just getting some hunting in. Well, I was, but I didn't want to tell you until I had something definite. Then Jack and I went to see the bank manager, and when he stopped laughing he arranged the loan and finance for us. We're going to have Jack's title at the masthead. It's his place and it inspires confidence having an earl in charge." 

"I can't think why," said Doyle. "He's madder than you are. Think you'll be able to make a go of it, then?" 

"Yes," said Bodie. "I have all the qualifications for the Board's standards. I'm going to do a refresher course. Maud Blackett is coming over to teach side-saddle with us. She used to do it years ago. Says it's coming back now. Did I tell you she was teaching Miranda? Shaping up well, too. An army colleague of mine wants to move over with his family. He's qualified, too. And I'm putting adverts in Horse and Hound and The Field when we need more staff. Can get local people for the stabling and that sort of thing. Decided I'd charge twenty pounds a session." 

"You what?" said Doyle. "You're sitting there telling me you're going to charge some poor slob twenty pounds for the privilege of sitting on a smelly horse, listening to you criticise his seat?" 

"I'm charging," said Bodie with hauteur, "for years of experience. Anyway, I know someone who charges thirty pounds, but I haven't won the King George V Cup, so that's out. I reckon we should be out of the red in a year." He paused and gazed into space, obviously seeing it all in glorious technicolor. 

"Yeah, you'll be good at the teaching," said Doyle. "Taught me, didn't you? And I knew you wouldn't be happy away from the damned horses. Should suit you fine. Look, Bodie, if you need some more financing ... Well, I know the book isn't doing well, but I've still got something in the sock. The roof will wait a while longer. We can always pray for a dry winter." 

"Thank you," said Bodie, "but we should be all right. And I can let you have the money for the roof. I sold my flat in Dublin and that land I had near Glendalough. The Bank should have it through in a few days. I'll have to change it from punts so I'm not sure how much it will be. Enough for a new roof anyway. I'd better go and see to all those boxes cluttering up the passage." 

Doyle sat thinking for a moment then went after Bodie, whom he could hear wrestling packing-cases up the stairs. 

Then he must have been thinking of settling... Oh damn. 

Doyle made his careful way upstairs; while the knee was doing fine, sudden movements were not yet a good idea. Bodie had got the cases to his room and appeared to be unpacking a small library. 

"Just what we need," said Doyle, "more books. The place is knee-deep in them already. You've not got any of those stuffed things as well, have you? I'm not having them here, you know." 

"I have not," said Bodie, amused. "Just more books, some pictures and odds and ends. I got rid of most of the furniture to the lads. Wasn't worth the cost of shipping it over." 

"You," said Doyle, "have never before mentioned a flat in Dublin, or any land." 

"Didn't I?" said Bodie. He had started to read one of the books he'd just unpacked. He looked at Doyle, who was bristling visibly. "What are you on about now?" he asked mildly. 

Doyle counted to ten. Twice. 

"Bodie," he said quietly, "I'm all for decent reticence between us, but as your other half and co-owner of this leaking property, I would appreciate knowing if you have any other assets that might be of use to us. Unless, of course, you have a wife and ten children living in a bog somewhere you haven't mentioned to me yet!" 

Bodie looked surprised. "I just had the flat for a place to doss when I didn't want to live in the barracks all the time. I bought the land years ago. At the time I thought I'd build a house there when I packed in the army - before I met you, of course. Had no idea it would go up so much in value. I've never had a wife, and as far as I know I don't have ten children either. And isn't it time you got off that leg and had a rest? Shall I put the coffee on?" 

"Why not?" said Doyle, making himself comfortable on Bodie's bed and collecting an armful of books to look through, carefully putting to one side those he fancied reading himself. He decided against inquiring if Bodie might have eight or nine children just in case he hit a lucky number. First thing Monday he would get in touch with a contractor about the roof, before Bodie saw a horse he just had to buy. 

He accepted his coffee thankfully and went on reading as Bodie looked round the room, opening cupboards and doors in the hope there just might be a place to cram in a few more books. 

"I didn't know you went in for Russian," said Doyle, peering into one book. 

"I don't," said Bodie, glancing at the book. "That's Irish, clot!" 

"Trust you lot to have a different alphabet," said Doyle. "Go on then, read me some - if you can. In English, please." 

Bodie settled on the bed with the book. "Let's see then," he said. "Ah, this will do for you - very romantic, this. A poet loved a lady, her family said no. Very unrequited. More interesting that way. Who wants to hear that Tristan and Isolde settled down with six kids and a mortgage?" 

"I've got nothing against it," said Doyle. "You can stuff the high romance - it doesn't last. I prefer someone who's likely to be sitting by the fire with me in my declining years." 

"Pull the other one," said Bodie. "It's not me who gets misty-eyed at romantic films! Now, how does this go ..." He began to read the poem. 

"Fair Una, you were as a rose in a garden;   
A golden candlestick on the queen's table,   
Moving before me like a song.   
'Tis my black sorrow that you were not married to me. 

Fair Una, 'tis you who has bereft me of my senses;   
Una, 'tis you who've come between me and God.   
Oh Una of the scented blossom, of the ringleted wavy hair,   
It were better for me if I had been blind and never to have set eyes on you. 

 

"Sounds better in Irish, of course," said Bodie. 

There was a silence. 

"Poor bastard," said Doyle. "Is it a true story?" 

"Yes," said Bodie. "They were not allowed to marry. Her family kept her prisoner on this island. He swam his horse across to see her, then she died. Later he was found dead on the island, too." 

Doyle went on with his coffee. "Bodie, we've never spoken about this and it's none of my business, but I know what your Church thinks of the way we live and you're a good Catholic lad in your own peculiar way. Does it bother you, or does Father Ryan give you a hard time over me?" 

"No," said Bodie. "I consider myself married/handfasted to you, whatever. I think it worried Father Ryan more when I was sowing wild oats with abandon. We never discuss my private life. And I don't consider what we do a sin. I think Himself will understand - just keep me waiting a while at the gate. I expect you to be there with me, too, keeping me company." 

"I," said Doyle, "will be inside, playing merry hell about them keeping you waiting. I'm not having that. Bodie! You can't get any more books into that cupboard." 

Bodie regretfully agreed. "Ray, that cupboard in your room ... Do you think - ?" he inquired hopefully. 

oOo 

Later that same week Doyle glanced through the account sheets and tossed them back to Mr Halliwell. "Not good, is it?" he remarked. "I was never happy with that book. It was a bitch to write. That's three years' hard work down the drain." 

"It's not a bad book," said Mr Halliwell. "It's just not proving very marketable at present. It could well be a sleeper. But I'm afraid there's no chance of a paperback issue at the moment, and you know that's where the profits lie." 

Doyle nodded a gloomy assent and passed over a plate of sliced cake. Mr Halliwell absently took another piece. 

"Have you anything else coming along?" he asked delicately. 

"I'm still working on the Campden Wonder," said Doyle, "but that's as much for the research as anything else. It wouldn't be a commercial book if I did crack it - which I will. Unless, of course, I can claim that William Harrison was spirited away by little green men from Mars, or Venus. Did you know that this part of Gloucestershire is on the same latitude as the Bermuda Triangle?" 

"Is it indeed?" said Mr Halliwell. "I'm afraid the idea of extraterrestrials in Chipping Campden lacks conviction." 

"I know," sighed Doyle. "Wouldn't be able to tell them from the locals." 

Used to Doyle's libels on his neighbours, Mr Halliwell declined to comment. "Then what else have you in hand?" he asked briskly. 

"Just a couple of short stories," said Doyle. "And 'the book', of course - that's what Bodie calls it. It's a sort of rag-bag of impressions I've been doing of the village and places around here. Started as a relaxation to take my mind off the morbid stuff I was researching and I started to get interested. Bodie kept telling me these stories. He's a great storyteller in lots of ways. I started to look into them, to catch him out as much as anything, but quite a lot was true and those that weren't had a lot going for them. It's very disorganised at the moment. Care to take a look at it?" 

"That's what I'm here for," said Mr Halliwell. "Well, that and to get out of my incredibly stuffy office in this lovely weather." 

Doyle handed over a large heap of manuscript and made some more tea. He gave Mr Halliwell a cup, after thoughtfully refilling the cake plate. Then, picking up a large wedge of cake and a mug of tea for Bodie, he made his way stablewards. He found the light of his life with a hoof tucked between his knees; he was picking it out and whistling tunelessly. 

"Tea," said Doyle, passing the mug over. Bodie wiped a hand on his breeches and accepted it with the cake. Doyle lit a cigarette, ignoring Bodie's reproachful glance. Piper's lungs were probably in a better condition than his own any day. 

"You know, I shall always think of you this way," said Doyle with resignation. "And I hope you have him securely tied. I heard about Jack losing the seat of his breeches last week. I wouldn't want you to get your attributes damaged." 

Bodie chuckled. "I've got a double hitch on Piper," he said. "Thanks. I can do with this. How's Halliwell? Pity he doesn't ride." 

"Have a heart," said Doyle. "He's already got nervous prostration from dealing with difficult authors." 

"More likely from you," said Bodie. He released the horse. "There you are, Cuddles," he said affectionately. "Got nice clean feet now." 

"Yuk," said Doyle. "Bodie, I've been thinking. You and Jack really need an accountant. Neither of you has any real experience of business and besides..." He paused tactfully. 

"Go on," said Bodie. "What were you going to say?" He was bristling. 

"Only that you wouldn't want to be disturbed from your important work with the horses for boring things like double entry bookkeeping," said Doyle, lying with conviction. 

"You could be right," said Bodie. "But it has to be someone who knows about horses, mind. I'm not having some wine bar yuppie who looks at Piper and works out how much he'd go for as cats' meat!" 

"Agreed," said Doyle. "I'm going back to ask Halliwell about it. He might know someone. I'd better get back anyway. I'm hoping to do some business for myself in there." 

Mr Halliwell was still poring over the book when Doyle returned to the kitchen. 

"More tea?" Doyle inquired. "And what do you think of it?" 

"I think it has possibilities," said Mr Halliwell, "and it is very suitable for the market at the moment. I was afraid at first it would be wishy-washy, but you are your usual astringent self. However, at the same time, your fondness for the local people and the countryside does come through strongly, without undue sentimentality I'm happy to say. I'm especially taken with some of the historical pieces. Though after reading the story about the church statues I will keep the light on tonight. Is that a true story - a local legend?" 

"I'm not really sure," said Doyle, smiling. "Bodie told it to me one dark night when the wind was moaning round the house. To tell you the truth, I looked over my shoulder a few times on the way to bed." 

"And these water-colours complement the text perfectly," said Mr Halliwell. "Is the artist a local person?" 

"Very," said Doyle. "He's probably picking Flash's feet out across the yard by now. I got Bodie to do 'em for me when he was in a receptive mood." 

"Could you persuade him to do more?" asked Mr Halliwell. "I think this story here is absolutely crying out for an illustration." 

"Ah," said Doyle. "The trouble is, Bodie's very shy about people knowing he can do this sort of thing. Told me he'd just learnt in the army so he could sketch maps and design gun emplacements, that sort of thing. Ag, his sister, told me he'd always done sketching. Used to worry their old man, in case he turned out to be gay - boring old philistine. Sounds the sort of idiot who gets his gun dogs done in oils. Very macho hunting, shooting family. Only thing I've really got against Bodie, that. Think it's engrained." 

Mr Halliwell gazed reflectively at the charming study on the far wall of two retrievers flanked by a heap of defunct ducks. "I see," he said. "But it would help the book, you know, if you could persuade Mr Bodie to do some more. Now, there is a lot of organisation to be done, and some parts definitely need rewriting, but it does have a lot of promise." 

"Right," said Doyle. "You can leave Bodie to me. But first, we have a problem. Remember I told you Bodie was going into business with his brother-in-law - the one who makes Lord Emsworth look like Albert Einstein?" 

"Lord Bicester is well spoken of in hunting circles," said Mr Halliwell mildly. "What seems to be the problem?" 

"They need an accountant," said Doyle. "Neither of them has the least idea of business. Bodie comes from a long line of impoverished Anglo-Irish squireens who, faced with a bill, stuck it behind the clock on the mantlepiece and hoped it would go away. I've spoken to Agnes - you know, Bodie's sister - and she says Jack is much the same. The only way they would recognise VAT for instance would be if it had 69 after it." 

Mr Halliwell looked thoughtful. "I may have the answer for you," he said. "My nephew Mervyn is looking for new clients. He is an excellent accountant." 

"How does he feel about horses?" asked Doyle. "If he's not besotted with them those two won't want to know." 

"He came fifth at the three-day event at Badminton last year," said Mr Halliwell. "Would that satisfy Mr Bodie?" 

"It would," said Doyle. "But I'd like to know more about him." 

Mr Halliwell recounted all on his horse-mad nephew, who seemed to be just what was needed, and they arranged a meeting. 

"I'll ask him to get in touch with you," said Mr Halliwell, "and then you can see if he would suit you both. Now, about the book..." 

oOo 

For the next three months Doyle, half buried in a sea of papers, sorted, wrote, rewrote, condensed, expanded, flew into a tantrum when he found errors, and at least twice a day said it was all too much and he was going to put his head in the oven or drown himself in the Piddle (average depth six inches), he really didn't care which. 

Bodie, now used to these excesses, mumbled words of comfort, read over extracts and pointed out errors - which was what he was supposed to do but which still got him yelled at - and at the same time was fighting his own battle with the local planning office for his covered school and new tack-room. 

"Can't understand it, Ray. They let thingy build that great awful Spanish hacienda on the old Bates farm. How did he get permission? It looks like a Spanish brothel." 

"If you mean Crispin Gould's lousy house, he's an MP," said Doyle, rewriting a page for the tenth time. 

Bodie looked up from the Horse and Hound. "Is he? I don't remember voting for him." 

"You wouldn't," said Doyle. "He represents Drexbury in Birmingham." 

"Why the hell doesn't he live there, then," said Bodie wrathfully. "Can't stand him. He wears a bright blue anorak with PEACE on the back." 

"Would you like to live in Birmingham?" said Doyle. "People have died of old age trying to get off their motorway." 

"Maybe I should have a word with Colonel Heaton," said Bodie. "After all, he is ours, isn't he? Ask him to put a word in for my covered school, giving employment to the masses and all that." 

Doyle did his usual speech about the country falling apart, law and order at an all-time low and you are bothering him about a covered school, and yes, it wasn't a bad idea because he'd be at the village hall that week. 

He regretted encouraging Bodie later, when he had to get his merry partner to bed after a very congenial meeting with Colonel Heaton (another hunting man). In a very short space of time he and Bodie had apparently become soul mates and spent some time playing war-games over several drinks at the Brewers. 

"Well, you'd have liked him," Bodie protested. "He's very keen on conservation." 

"Yes," said Doyle bitterly. "He's against chemicals on the land in case they upset his pheasants before he can shoot them." 

However, permission was granted and Bodie set off on horse-buying jaunts and other matters for the Centre, leaving Doyle still hard at work. One bright spot was Mr Halliwell's nephew, Mervyn, who turned out to be ideal. After taking him out with the drag hunt, Bodie announced he'd, "do fine, Ray. Never blinked an eyelash at Millers Bank." 

Doyle sighed. Oh, well. Maybe that was how HRH picked her accountant, too. 

Near the end of the second month Bodie arrived home very late from a successful horse- buying mission to find all the lights still on at 4 a.m. He put the kettle on, assured the animals this did not mean a super-early breakfast and made his way to Doyle's study, which was in its usual state of confusion with Amos snoozing in the 'out' tray and cups scattered about. From the debris, a red-eyed creature blinked up at him, like a mole caught in the daylight. 

Bodie shook his head. "Have you any idea of the time?" he asked. 

"I couldn't even tell you the day," said Doyle, yawning. "I've been at this since early morning. It has to be finished for the weekend." 

"I'm making you some hot chocolate and then it's bed," said Bodie. "You look like something brought up in a cellar. Now you've got me home for three days I can help. I can't do any more at the Centre - the builders are in. Ag's in charge there. She interfered so much we put her on strength. She's good at getting people moving." 

"Yes," said Doyle. "Trying, but efficient, that's Ag. Get the horses?" 

"Yes, and at the price I wanted," said Bodie. "Kettle will be boiling, and it's chocolate. Coffee will only keep you awake." 

"Nothing will keep me awake," said Doyle. "Oh damn, where's that note!" He started scrabbling through his papers. "Bodie, shift Amos, will you? He's probably sitting on it." 

Bodie picked up the plump Persian and began to cuddle him. Amos playfully batted him with his paw, then breathed Whiskas affectionately over him. 

"Got it!" said Doyle. He watched Bodie stroking his cat. "Wish I wasn't so tired," he added gloomily. 

Bodie fetched the chocolate and steered Doyle firmly to his room. "You are having a long lie-in tomorrow, and don't argue - today, rather." 

Doyle didn't even protest but fell into bed and was asleep almost immediately. 

oOo 

"It's disgraceful, that's what this is," said Doyle happily, looking at the well-filled breakfast tray on his lap. "I should be working, you know. I'll tell Halliwell it's all your fault I'm going to be late with the rewrite." 

Bodie, unmoved, helped himself to a large slice of toast. 

"Gerroff!" yelled Doyle. "I'm hungry." 

They shared the marmalade and ate in calm domesticity. 

"It's our anniversary at the end of the month," said Doyle. "What are you giving me?" 

"You don't need anything, you've got me," said Bodie. That earned him a whack across the knuckles with the blunt side of Doyle's knife. 

"You wait!" said Bodie, sucking them. "Anyway, I'm taking you out for the evening." 

Doyle looked at him warily. He wanted to believe that could mean a trip to London to see Phantom of the Opera, followed by a good dinner at an expensive restaurant with Bodie picking up all the bills. But on past form... 

"It's not going to be like last year, is it?" he inquired suspiciously. "Where we ended up at the village hall seeing that awful film, followed by two pints of warm beer at the Brewers and a bag of chips on the way home?" 

"No. Straight up," said Bodie. "I'm taking you to a show with a meal afterwards. Won't have to dress for it either - well, put on a tie. I've got the tickets." 

"Hum, we shall see," said Doyle. "And you can stop eating my breakfast. Any more coffee? Bodie, I need a favour from you." 

"What?" inquired Bodie, fixing him with a suspicious eye. 

"It's the book," said Doyle. "It needs a dust-wrapper or whatever you call it. I'd like you to do one for me." 

"That's a specialist job," said Bodie. "I'm not doing it." 

"You've done six illos for me already," said Doyle. "So what's the difference?" 

"It's not the same at all," said Bodie. "You have to do a full cover and there's always trouble with the spine and the lettering. Very awkward to get it right." 

"You've got three clear days," said Doyle. "So you can sit down and practise." 

"I was hoping to practise something else in bed," said Bodie. 

"I haven't got time for that," said Doyle briskly. "I need my cover done first. And you can stop looking deprived." 

"I am deprived," said Bodie indignantly. 

"Only since Tuesday," said Doyle. "Come on, I know you'll do a great job. This is the idea the art department had... I don't like it myself." 

Bodie glanced at it. "Bugger," he said. "If I can't do better than that..." 

oOo 

"Yes, indeed," said Mr Halliwell a few weeks later. "The firm is very taken with the book. How did you persuade Mr Bodie to do the extra illustration and the dust-wrapper? It's a very fine piece of work, by the way." 

"I know," said Doyle. "Threats mostly. Just remind them they won't be getting his work free." 

"I take it you will deal with that for him," said Mr Halliwell. 

"Yes," said Doyle. "He's up to his ears in horses at the moment, and I'm a lot sharper on money than Bodie is. He comes home in the evening full of all the disasters, as happy as a sandboy." 

"Everything set fair then?" said Mr Halliwell. 

"I hope so," said Doyle cautiously. "I'm nervous of getting too complacent. Them up there don't like you being too happy - part of the puritan work ethic - start throwing thunderbolts at you. Damn, given myself away, haven't I?" He grinned. 

"I'm delighted for both of you," said Mr Halliwell. "I have far too many emotion-racked writers baring their souls in this office. It's a refreshing change." 

 

On arriving home, Doyle found his companion carefully earthing up a row of potatoes. 

"You good lad," said Doyle with approval. "I was wondering how I was going to con you into doing that. Why aren't you hard at work at the Centre?" 

"Free afternoon," said Bodie. "I insisted on it now we have Captain Porter to take classes as well. I'm entitled to two, actually, a week. How was your day?" 

"Very good," said Doyle. "Halliwell says they are pleased with your cover. The book seems to have passed all the hurdles and I'm negotiating your fee for the artwork." 

"Oh." Bodie had gone slightly pink to Doyle's amusement. "I get paid for it?" 

"You do, and don't go and spend all the money on your damned horse." 

"Baby needs new shoes," said Bodie sadly. 

"Oh God, slurring his feet again," said Doyle. "Don't know why you don't put the bloody thing on castors. You know, Bodie, I'd just as rather we stayed home tomorrow than traipsed out somewhere. Have a quiet evening in front of the Aga and I'll cook something decent. Unless you've booked somewhere?" 

"Don't worry about that," said Bodie cheerfully. "Only have to walk down to the village. That's where it's all happening." 

"You've done it again, haven't you?" said Doyle. "Lousy, cheating, Irish villain. I should   
have known. Go on, what's my treat then - local shove-halfpenny board contest at the Brewers?" 

"No," said Bodie. "You just wait. It's very exclusive, everyone will be there." 

 

Next evening, dressing for the big event, Doyle watched Bodie carefully for clues. He put on his best cavalry twills, one of his 'going to church' shirts and best jacket, which all indicated something more than a trip to the local pub. 

"All right," said Doyle, "the suspense has gone on long enough. What are we going to do this evening?" 

"We will be present at 'An Evening of Entertainment, With Buffet, at the Larton Village Leisure Centre'," said Bodie. "The object of the exercise is to raise funds to send our Pony Club team to the White City next year." 

"Oh fuck," said Doyle. "Will there be a bar?" 

"At five pounds a ticket there better had be," said Bodie. "I don't think we'll be able to stand the entertainment without one or two drinks. Oh, and it will be opened by a local celebrity." 

"Who?" inquired Doyle. "Not that actor, the one who drinks?" 

"Which?" asked Bodie. "Oh, no, not Ollie. Jack's opening it." 

"Now there's a thrill," said Doyle. "After all, the villagers see him trotting about doing his shopping every day. Now, seeing we will be in such exalted circles, will my moleskins and sports jacket be acceptable?" 

 

Doyle looked round the crowded room, nodding occasionally to his neighbours. "Well, they are certainly all here," he remarked. "Your brother-in-law... I see his good lady had the sense to be absent. Colonel Heaton; the vicar; that bloody Gould; a couple of local MFHs. Who's that over there, next to the vicar? Oh God, it's Amy. Put on some weight, hasn't she?" 

 

"I just can't believe this," said Doyle, some time later. "This show is plumbing new depths of incompetence. I thought the handbell ringers were the bottom but... Bodie, if that brat doesn't stop kicking the back of my chair I'm turning round and strangling the little pest. Going to kill you when we get home. Thank God, it's finally the intermission." 

They moved to a side room where an excellent buffet was being served. Miranda bounced over to them. "I've got my hair up," she announced. "How do you think it looks?" 

"Like you've got a basket on your head," said her fond uncle. 

"It looks very smart," said Doyle, glaring at Bodie. "You look just like a duchess." 

Miranda dimpled happily, told her uncle he was a pig then started avidly discussing the pony club's chances with him. Doyle went to get a life-saving drink and found himself joined by Father Ryan, who thanked him for his contribution to the Harvest Festival. 

"We're so very few on the ground round here, Mr Doyle. It was very thoughtful of you. It's all going to be distributed to the local pensioners, of course." 

Doyle said fine, but let him know in more time next year, and made a note to check his garden when he got home and find out just what had been removed and donated. Still, it seemed to have broken the ice between him and Bodie's priest. 

Bodie joined them, carrying two drinks. Father Ryan went to chat to the vicar. 

"He thanked me for my harvest festival offering," said Doyle. "Let me know next time so I can make up a good batch for you." 

Bodie blushed. "Well, I knew you'd given a batch to the vicar and our lot was so measly. Your stuff looked great, Ray. Good buffet, isn't it?" 

"Terrific," said Doyle, having mellowed considerably. He went back for seconds, stopping to chat with Jess and Ashley. He assured Miranda that, yes, she would be getting a copy of the book when it came out, and yes, he would autograph it personally for her (she was indifferent to her Uncle William's contribution). Amy stopped him to say how pleasant it was to be back in the village to see all her old friends. They didn't seem to have changed at all. She dropped several names, all totally unknown to Doyle, then invited him to her next Hunt Ball. 

Doyle declined gracefully, saying how sorry he was Bodie would be unable to attend also. Much fortified, he then went for the second half of the entertainment. 

 

"I wouldn't have missed it for anything," he said to Bodie as they walked home. "Your Miranda couldn't carry a tune in a wheelbarrow. And as for the curate's recitation about the crippled, dying bootblack, whose brother brings him the flowers..." 

"I thought it was very affecting myself," said Bodie. 

"Yes, I noticed you had your hands over your face, shaking," said Doyle. "And Jack yanked Miranda out with his hand over her mouth. Good thing Ashley was busy at the buffet. No, that had to be the worst." 

"No," said Bodie firmly. "I disagree. Mrs Johnston's interpretation of Joan of Arc being burned at the stake is engraved on my memory." 

"Oh, yes," said Doyle fervently. "I thought I'd bust something trying not to laugh. When the red streamers started blowing in the wind from the machine I nearly creased myself. Then the drinks at the Brewers after hours - kept expecting PC Plod to burst in and arrest us all." 

"He couldn't," said Bodie. "He was playing darts in the saloon. And save me some of those chips. I don't know where you put it all, skinny little runt." 

They paused at the bridge. 

"The pigs are in for the night," said Bodie. "River's a lot less niffy, too. You've done a good job there, my lad. 'In such a night...'" he announced loudly, "'Stood Dido with a willow in her hand upon the wild sea-banks, and waft her love To come again to Carthage...'" 

"Did she now?" said Doyle. "How many did you have?" he asked affectionately. 

"You can talk," said Bodie. 

"Well, one tries to do one's best, in some small way, to benefit our tiny community." Doyle imitated with deadly accuracy the head of the Parish Council, known to his enemies as Pompous Potter. 

"Poor bugger," said Bodie. "He'll find himself in one of your books next." 

"Never!" said Doyle. "I wouldn't have him. And why are we standing here getting midge-bitten when we could be at home, snug in front of the Aga?" 

"I'm waiting for some moonlight," said Bodie. "I've got something to tell you. There!" He beamed with approval as the scene was lit by a silvery light. "Just wanted to tell you. The years with you have been the happiest of my life. That's all." 

Doyle blew his nose hard. 

"Typical mick," he said. "Tells me that over a row of pigpens. Come on, Butch. Let's go home and I'll make you a big pan of chips."


End file.
